ã€ŠDirty Damage (Pavlov Bratva Book 1)ã€‹


 Dirty Damage: Chapter 1

    ¡°Another morous morning in paradise,¡± I mutter, peeling my thighs off the leather seat.

    The dashboard thermometer reads 97 degrees as of 7 A.M., because Florida doesn¡¯t believe in mercy.

    Up ahead, the neon sign for the Pavlov Industries Daycare Center flickers like a dying star in the muggy morning haze.

    My reflection in the ss door makes me wince¡ªI look exactly how I feel after the red-eye from Vegas.

    Like a waterlogged roon. Like microwaved death.

    All I want is my bed and forty-eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. Instead, I get to go to work¡ªwhich, for me, involves herding twenty bright-eyed, bushy-tailed children from activity to activity all day long.

    Joy, oh, joy.

    Inside, renovation chaos hits me full force. The employee daycare center is in the middle of a facelift. It¡¯s badly needed, though whoever chose the end of summer to redo the faltering A/C needs a very stern talking-to.

    White sheets drape over tiny tables and chairs like discount ghosts. The usual scent of y-Doh and apple juice is buried under sawdust and fresh paint.

    ¡°Morning, sunshine,¡± my best friend and fellow daycare employee Mara calls from the craft table where she¡¯s setting out supplies. ¡°You look like absolute hell.¡±

    Her dark curls are wilting in the heat. Above us, the AC¡¯s death rattle echoes through the vents.

    ¡°Thanks, Mar. You always know just what to say.¡±

    I dump my oversized bag behind the desk and copse into my chair. The cheap foam cushion exhales defeat.

    ¡°What¡¯s the temperature in here, a billion?¡±

    ¡°Close. Maintenance says they¡¯ll fix it next week.¡± She eyes me carefully. ¡°How was Vegas? How¡¯s Sydney?¡±

    The concern in her voice makes my throat tight. ¡°She¡¯s¡­ Sydney. You know how she is.¡±

    What I don¡¯t say: that my sister is still with Paul, the shady asshole twice her age.

    He bought her a diamond tennis bracelet while I was there, and she couldn¡¯t stop touching it, like it was some kind of talisman.

    She wouldn¡¯t meet my eyes when I asked if she was happy.

    I shudder and blink the memory away. Thest thing I need is to relive our fight about my ex, one of Paul¡¯s friends. Sydney thinks I should ¡°hear him out¡± after he showed up at her ce during my visit.

    As if two years of maniption and gaslighting weren¡¯t enough of a hearing.

    Mara nods, understanding all the things I¡¯m not saying. That¡¯s what I love about her.

    ¡°Well, wee back to the swamp,¡± she says, gesturing around the half-demolished room. ¡°Renovations are running behind, shocking absolutely no one.¡±

    ¡°Is there any good news?¡± I ask hopefully.

    ¡°Nope. But there is coffee.¡± She slides a paper cup across the desk with an apologetic smile.

    ¡°You¡¯re an angel.¡±

    I gulp it down, not caring that it scorches my tongue. Between the heat, the renovation noise, and Sydney¡¯s rtionship advice, I need all the chemical courage I can get.

    ¡°At least someone recognizes it,¡± Mara agrees sagely.

    A ding from the front door makes us both jump.

    I nearly spill the nuclear-grade coffee down my shirt. Because that¡¯s exactly what this morning needs: third-degree burns to match my emotional scarring.

    And thus, the day begins.

    Kids start arriving, and I slip into work mode, greeting parents and helping little ones get settled.

    By snack time, sweat trickles down my spine, and my caffeine high has devolved into a headache that throbs behind my left eye.

    I¡¯m arranging juice boxes and crackers when Chloe Morris appears at my elbow, her brown eyes wide beneath a fringe of dark bangs.

    ¡°Miss Palmer, can we y dress-up princesses after snack? Please?¡±

    I should say no. Every cell in my body is screaming for a nap, not princess ytime.

    ¡°Today¡¯s not the best day, sweetie,¡± I begin, but then her face falls, and I remember what Mara told me yesterday over text¡ªChloe¡¯s parents¡¯ divorce was finalized this week, and her dad missed his visitation.

    ¡°It¡¯s almost my birthday,¡± she adds softly, twisting the hem of her shirt. ¡°I¡¯m going to be four.¡±

    My resolve crumbles like a sandcastle at high tide.

    When I was Chloe¡¯s age, fairytales were my escape hatch from reality. Beauty and the Beast was my lifeline¡ªI watched that VHS tape while Mom worked thete shift at Caesar¡¯s Pce until it literally wore out.

    The memory of finding it broken in the VCR still makes my chest ache.

    ¡°Okay,¡± I hear myself say. ¡°But just for a little while.¡±

    ¡°Yay!¡± Her face lights up like someone flipped a switch. ¡°You¡¯re more beautiful than Princess Belle!¡±

    Argh, this little emotional terrorist knows just what buttons to push. I couldn¡¯t back out even if I wanted to.

    Mara catches my eye across the room, dramatically wiping away an imaginary tear and mouthing ¡°softie.¡±

    I stick my tongue out at her, which sets Chloe off in a cascade of giggles that makes the whole thing worth it.

    As I help her arrange the stic tea set, the gurgling A/C ruckus fades into white noise. Just for a moment, I let myself believe in magic again.

    In possibility.

    In happy endings.

    Chloe drags me to the dress-up corner. She retrieves her favorite yellow Belle dress, and I reluctantly pull out the adult version we keep for teachers.

    It¡¯s ridiculous¡ªsome polyester nightmare donated by a parent¡ªand as I step into it, I¡¯m reminded that whoever designed it clearly had a twelve-year-old in mind, not a woman with actual curves.

    It¡¯s a strapless, size Eff You, with stic beads that dig into my hipbones.

    ¡°You have to twirl,¡± Chloe instructs, demonstrating with her arms out. ¡°Fancy princess twirls!¡±

    I oblige, even as the cheap fabric strains across my chest. The sleeves don¡¯t even reach my elbows.

    But Chloe¡¯s delight makes it worth it, her giggle like wind chimes as she spins alongside me.

    ¡°More! Bigger twirls!¡± she demands, and Iply, despite the warning bells in my head.

    Faster we go.

    Faster.

    Faster.

    We¡¯re lost in our royal spinning when disaster strikes. On one wild revolution, my elbow catches the edge of the tea set.

    There¡¯s a suspended moment¡ªjuice boxes airborne, crackers floating like confetti¡ªbefore gravity takes over.

    I lunge to catch Chloe as she falls, and we go down together in a sticky, crumb-covered heap.

    Apple juice drenches us both, though I¡¯ve taken the brunt of it. It soaks through the yellow costume and sters my hair to my face.

    Chloe¡¯s more startled than hurt, but her birthday dress is a casualty.

    Mara appears above us, hand covering her mouth. For a second, I think she¡¯s concerned¡ªbut then a snort escapes.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she gasps, shoulders shaking with suppressedughter. ¡°Your face!¡±

    ¡°Hrious,¡± I mutter, peeling a soggy cracker off my arm. ¡°Really, truly ster.¡±

    She helps us up, still fighting giggles. ¡°I¡¯ve got the ident clothes tote somewhere¡­¡± She rummages through a cab and produces a canvas bag. ¡°Take Chloe to the gym showers in the east wing. No one uses them this time of day. I¡¯ll clean up this masterpiece.¡±

    ¡°Did I call you an angel earlier? I meant ¡®saint.¡¯¡±

    ¡°Music to my ears,¡± she replies with a wink. ¡°Now, scram, before someone importantes knocking.¡±

    I wrap a clean towel around Chloe, grab the clothes bag, and we make our escape.

    The halls are mercifully empty as we squelch our way to the east wing corporate gym. It¡¯s one of those bougie setups with marble counters and fancy showers¡ªperks for the executives who actually make decent money at Pavlov Industries.

    The women¡¯s locker room is empty, thank god. I get Chloe into a shower stall and help her wash the juice from her hair, and then wrap her in one of the plush gym towels.

    ¡°Your turn,¡± she says, pointing at my sticky costume.

    Right. My turn.

    I look down and grimace. I look like I just went ten rounds with the Kool-Aid Man.

    ¡°Stay right there,¡± I tell her. ¡°Pretend you¡¯re a statue!¡±

    I step into a bathroom stall, close the door, and try to shimmy out of the dress.

    Key word: ¡°try.¡± Because it does not go well.

    Not at all.

    The polyester is practically melted to my skin, and they might¡¯ve identally mixed some cement into this juice, because it¡¯s sticky everywhere I touch. I grab the zipper and?¡ª

    No. Please, no.

    It¡¯s stuck. The cheap metal teeth are snagged on a fold of fabric, and no amount of twisting or contorting helps. This thing has me trapped in polyester hell. No amount of yoga could save me.

    ¡°Chloe, honey? Can you try to help with the zipper?¡±

    I open the door and turn my back toward her. Tiny fingers fumble with it for a few minutes before she deres, ¡°It¡¯s stuck real bad.¡±

    Great.

    Peachy.

    Wonderful stuff here.

    I rifle through the emergency clothes bin with increasing desperation. There¡¯s got to be something in here besides¡­

    A Paw Patrol t-shirt sized for a kindergartener.

    I stare at the cartoon dogs grinning up at me. The shirt might¡ªmight ¨C cover about a third of my torso. At best.

    ¡°We need to find scissors,¡± I mumble, trying to think through my options. None are good.

    While I¡¯m having my minor breakdown, Chloe has wandered over to the locker room door. Before I can stop her, she pushes it open.

    ¡°Chloe, wait?¡ª¡±

    But she¡¯s gone. I hear her voice from the hallway, and then a deeper one that makes my stomach drop through the floor.

    ¡°You have to help us, Mr. Beast! Belle is stuck and needs her zipper down!¡±

    Mr. WHO? Oh my God.

    I look down at myself¡ªhalf-in, half-out of a soaked yellow princess dress, sticky with apple juice, and basically exposed from the waist up save for my nude-colored, barely-there bra that I wore because it¡¯s the only one that doesn¡¯t show through my white work shirt.

    I lunge for the paper towel dispenser, yanking out a fistful and pressing them against my chest like Eve in the Garden of Eden just as the locker room door swings open.

    Chloe appears, her small hand engulfed in a muchrger one that belongs to?¡ª

    Sweet baby Jesus¡­

    Oleg.

    As in Oleg Pavlov.

    As in the Oleg Pavlov, CEO of Pavlov Industries.

    The man whose name is on my paycheck. The guy everyone calls ¡°The Beast¡± behind his back because of his temper and the burn scars that mark the right side of his face and disappear under his cor.

    He fills the doorway, a mountain of a man in a ck tank top and gym shorts that reveal exactly why people also whisper about his fitness regimen.

    His muscles don¡¯t just have muscles¡ªthey have their own zip codes and tax brackets. Sweat glistens on his skin, highlighting the ridge of scars along his jaw and neck.

    His dark hair is damp at the temples, and his eyes¡ªa startling amber like whiskey on the rocks¡ªlock onto mine.

    Those eyes sweep down my body¡ªtaking in my bare feet, the yellow polyester bunched around my waist, and finallynding on the paper towels I¡¯m clutching to my chest like Tarzan¡¯s Jane in hand-spun lingerie.

    His jaw tightens, and something shes in his expression that makes my skin tingle in ces it absolutely should not be tingling.

    I press my back against the cold tile wall like I could teleport through it if I try hard enough.

    Think, Sutton. Think.

    But my phone is in my office. My pepper spray is in my purse. And my dignity?

    Ha. Never had that in the first ce.

    ¡°What is happening here?¡±

    His voice is more growl than words. If the busted A/C in the walls is a dying animal, then this is an animal that¡¯s very much alive.

    Chloe pipes up immediately. ¡°We were ying princesses and had an ident with the juice and Miss Palmer¡¯s dress is stuck and we had to use the showers because Miss Mara said to and now she can¡¯t get the zipper down and I went to find help and you¡¯re the Beast so you have to help Belle!¡±

    She delivers that whole exnation in one breathless rush while I struggle to form words like a functioning adult.

    Oleg looks at me.

    Raises one eyebrow.

    Waits.

    ¡°There was a spill in the daycare,¡± I finally manage to splutter out. ¡°The A/C¡¯s broken, renovations everywhere, we needed showers, Mara suggested¡­ Sorry. I didn¡¯t mean to be in here. It¡¯s just?¡ª¡±

    ¡°You work at the daycare?¡± His eyes are still doing that thing where they seem to be memorizing every inch of my exposed skin.

    And, for its part, my exposed skin seems to be doing that thing where it¡¯s going up in flushed tingles everywhere his eyes look.

    It¡¯s a fucked-up kind of dance, if we¡¯re being honest. I want off this ride. My hormones need to check themselves before they wreck themselves.

    Because the way Oleg Pavlov¡¯s biceps flex as he crosses those massive arms over his chest? Pure sin. The kind of sin that got Eve kicked out of Eden.

    The kind that would have me living in a cardboard box behind a Wendy¡¯s if I let my libido do the driving.

    I clutch the paper towels tighter, desperately grateful that at least the stupid Belle costume covers most of my southern regions.

    But my traitor nipples are staging their own rebellion, and his eyes miss nothing as they rake over me from head to toe.

    But in the immediate wake of this arousal I never wanted nor asked for, irritation res.

    I¡¯ve worked at Pavlov Industries for eight months. I¡¯ve seen Oleg in the hallways, atpany functions. I even handed him a coffee once when his assistant was in the bathroom.

    But of course he doesn¡¯t recognize me¡ªI¡¯m just another invisible worker bee. A grunt. An NPC. Toilet paper stuck to his shoes.

    ¡°You might recognize me if you looked at my face, Mr. Pavlov.¡± The words fly out before I can stop them, bristling with fatigue and frustration.

    His mouth quirks up at one corner. Not quite a smile.

    But not not a smile.

    ¡°I might recognize you if you were wearing actual clothes and not paper towels. And if you were working where you¡¯re supposed to be working.¡±

    Touch¨¦.

    But before I can respond, Chloe tugs on his hand. ¡°Fix her zip, Mr. Beast!¡± she demands, pointing at my back.

    My face zes hotter. ¡°That¡¯s really not necessary?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Turn around.¡±

    Two words. Simple, terse¡ªand utterly undeniable.

    My body wants to obey before my brain can catch up, which is exactly the kind of response I¡¯ve spent two-plus years training myself out of. Men who expect instantpliance are men who take miles when given inches.

    But he¡¯s still my boss.

    And I¡¯m still trapped in this polyester disaster.

    His footsteps approach. One heartbeat. Two.

    Then heat radiates against my back as he steps closer, and my whole body goes electric.

    The zipper gives way with a decisive rrrrrip. Cool air hits my overheated skin as the bodice peels away, and I just manage to catch the costume before it drops past my hips.

    Paper towels still clutched to my chest, I try not to breathe in his scent.

    That way lies danger.

    The silence stretches between us, thick and frightening. I can feel his eyes on my bare skin.

    ¡°You have other clothes here, I hope?¡± His voice is darker now, rougher. Like he¡¯s tasting each word before letting it out.

    I manage a jerky nod, not trusting myself to speak. My heart is doing gymnastics in my chest, and my brain keeps getting stuck on the way his muscles ripple as he moves.

    ¡°Good. I¡¯ll take the child back to the daycare where she belongs.¡± He steps back, and I can breathe again.

    Almost.

    Until¡­

    ¡°In the meantime, call my assistant for an appointment to see me tomorrow. Tell her it¡¯s a Code Red priority.¡±

    I clutch the ruined costume tighter, face ming. ¡°Code Red. Got it.¡±

    Thest thing I see before the door closes is his dark smirk.

    Thest thing I hear is: ¡°No need to wear a princess dress.¡±

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 2

    When I return to the yroom, Mara is stacking tiny chairs. The spill zone has been wiped clean, but herughter is still going strong. My story is just more wind in her sails.

    ¡°You called him ¡®Mr. Beast¡¯? To his face?¡± She doubles over, hand pressed against her stomach. ¡°And he actually responded to it? Oh my God, I would¡¯ve paid money to see that.¡±

    ¡°It wasn¡¯t me¡ªit was Chloe.¡± I sink into a miniature chair that doesn¡¯t so much support my weight as reluctantly acknowledge it andin about the imposition. ¡°I¡¯m gonna get fired, Mar. What the hell is a ¡®Code Red priority¡¯?¡±

    Mara waves this away like I¡¯m fretting over spilled milk instead of my entire livelihood. ¡°Girl, please. If he wanted to fire you, he would¡¯ve done it on the spot.¡±

    ¡°Then what does he want?¡±

    Her smile shifts into something knowing. ¡°Same thing most men want when they look at you like that.¡±

    ¡°Like what?¡±

    ¡°Like you¡¯re a cupcake and they haven¡¯t eaten in days.¡± She perches on the edge of the craft table. ¡°Think about it. You¡¯re exactly his type.¡±

    I blink. ¡°I have a type?¡±

    ¡°ording to the gossip blogs, Pavlov goes for curvy brtes with perfect skin.¡± She ticks these points off on her fingers. ¡°The tabloids are always catching him with some model or actress draped over his arm. Neversts more than a month, though.¡±

    Great. So the guy who signs my paychecks is a yer with a wandering eye andmitment issues. What a dreame true.

    ¡°I don¡¯t want to be anyone¡¯s type, especially not his. I need this job.¡±

    ¡°Rx. If he tries anything sleazy, just threaten awsuit. He might be a billionaire, but no one¡¯s immune to a good old-fashioned sexual harassment im.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s your solution?¡± My voice rises an octave. ¡°Threaten legal action against one of the most powerful men in Palm Beach?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m just saying it¡¯s an option.¡± She shrugs, unperturbed. ¡°But honestly, in the five years I¡¯ve been here, he¡¯s been pretty decent about workce stuff. Pavlov Industries has a solid harassment policy, and from what I¡¯ve seen, he backs it up.¡±

    None of thisforts me.

    Not even a little.

    The prospect of sitting across from Oleg Pavlov¡ªdiscussing God knows what while he looks at me with those strip-you-naked-and-spank-you-raw eyes¡ªmakes my stomach twist into a knot.

    I¡¯ve spent two excruciatingly long years learning how to avoid men who make me feel like that.

    The ones whose attention feels both exhrating and terrifying.

    The ones who look at you like they already know all your secrets.

    ¡°I just¡­¡± I exhale shakily. ¡°I hate confrontation.¡±

    ¡°No shit.¡± Mara¡¯s expression softens. ¡°Remember when that dad yelled at you for not finding his kid¡¯s missing shoe, and you cried in the supply closet for twenty minutes?¡±

    ¡°It was fifteen minutes, max.¡±

    She pats my shoulder. ¡°Listen, it¡¯s probably nothing. He¡¯ll ask about the incident, tell you not to use the executive gym ever again under pain of death, maybe make you sign something saying you won¡¯t sue if Chloe¡¯s parents find out she was unsupervised while you did a strip tease. Then it¡¯ll be over.¡±

    I nod, but my throat¡¯s still tight. Confrontation, dates,wsuits¡ªthey all require the same thing: standing up for myself.

    And that¡¯s exactly what I¡¯m worst at.<hr>

    My afternoon break can¡¯te fast enough.

    After the Princess Belle fiasco, I hide in the staff bathroom, obsessively refreshing my email and messages, waiting for the executioner¡¯s digital ax.

    But it doesn¡¯te.

    Nothing from Pavlov Industries HR.

    Nothing from Mr. Beast himself.

    Maybe he forgot about me? A girl can dream, right?

    Right on cue, my phone buzzes. For a heartbeat, panic seizes my chest¡ªuntil I see it¡¯s just an email from Starlight Photography in Vegas.

    The subject line reads: ¡°Your mour Session Photos¡ªReady for Download!¡±

    Oh, God. I¡¯d almost forgotten.

    I tap the link, enter the password, and?¡ª

    Holy. Mother. Of. Cheesecake.

    Guess it¡¯s my day to remember I have boobs. First, the costume disaster; now, this.

    The universe is really hammering home the point.

    No points for subtlety in this life, I suppose.

    The first image loads: me, draped across a velvet chaise lounge in ck lingerie, hair tumbling over my shoulders, looking at the camera like I actually know what I¡¯m doing.

    Which, to be clear, I absolutely did not.

    The photographer kept saying things like ¡°Give me smolder!¡± and ¡°Channel your inner goddess!¡± while I tried not to die of embarrassment.

    I swipe to the next photo. Sydney and me, back-to-back, her in redce, me in ck, bothughing at some stupid joke she¡¯d cracked about taking a ride on the photographer¡¯s handlebar mustache.

    My throat tightens.

    Sydney¡¯s smile in these photos is real¡ªnot the stic one she wears around Paul, but the one I remember from when we were little girls.

    The whole photo shoot had been Syd¡¯s idea, of course. She¡¯d shown up at my hotel roomst Wednesday, mascara smeared down her cheeks, clutching her phone like she wanted to crush it.

    ¡°He called me fat,¡± she¡¯d spat, pacing the ugly carpet. ¡°Twice! Because I ordered dessert at dinner. In front of his friends!¡±

    Lipovsky.

    That walking shit stain.

    I¡¯ve hated him since the moment Sydney introduced us three years ago. He¡¯s twice her age with ten times the ego and half the conscience.

    Casino owner, and he never lets you forget it. Expensive, shiny suits. Eyes that never quite make it up to your face when he talks to you. Talks at you, rather.

    ¡°Leave him, Syd,¡± I¡¯d begged for the thousandth time. ¡°You don¡¯t need this. You don¡¯t need him.¡±

    But Sydney¡¯s face had hardened in that way I know too well¡ªthe same look she wore when she was eight and I was four and she¡¯d promised we wouldn¡¯t be separated in foster care if Mama didn¡¯te home that night.

    Determination like concrete. We Palmer women have that in spades.

    No good luck, no good sense¡ªbut stubbornness? Oh, hell yeah.

    We¡¯re as stubborn as the day is long.

    ¡°I¡¯m going to show that mofo exactly what he¡¯d be missing,¡± she¡¯d dered instead, already tapping at her phone. ¡°Starlight Photography does boudoir sessions. We¡¯re both going.¡±

    ¡°¡®We¡¯? As in me, too? No way.¡±

    ¡°Yes way. Sister solidarity. Besides¡ª¡± Her voice had softened, vulnerability peeking through¡ª¡±I need you there. Please?¡±

    And like always, I¡¯d caved.

    Because it¡¯s Sydney.

    Because she raised me when no one else could or would.

    Because saying no to her feels like betraying the only person who¡¯s never abandoned me.

    So we¡¯d spent three hours in a photography studio off the Strip, pouting and posing while Sydney knocked back champagne and I tried to channel confidence I absolutely do not possess.

    Looking at the photos now, I don¡¯t recognize myself. The woman on my screen looks bold, sensual, unafraid. It¡¯s a costume every bit as fake as that Belle dress, but somehow, more convincing.

    What was I thinking? These aren¡¯t me. I¡¯m the invisible daycare worker who wears shapeless clothes and hides in bathroom stalls.

    But for Sydney¡­

    For Sydney, I¡¯d wear my heart outside my body if she asked me to.

    My break¡¯s almost over. I set my phone on the sink and ssh cold water on my face. It¡¯s time to get back to what matters.

    No more Pavlov, no more princess dresses, no more photos today. Just finger-painting with the two-year-olds.

    I can handle that much, at least.

    But before I go, I take onest look at the screen. My thumb hovers over the delete button, trembling slightly.

    Delete them. Just do it.

    But Sydney¡¯s face shes through my mind¡ªhow excited she was during the shoot,ughing as she posed, momentarily free from Paul¡¯s critical gaze. Her eyes lit up when the photographer showed us the preview shots.

    ¡°We look like goddamn movie stars,¡± she¡¯d whispered, squeezing my arm.

    For a few hours, we were just sisters again.

    I pull my finger back. Sydney paid the equivalent of two weeks¡¯ worth of my sry for these pictures. She wanted them to prove something to Paul¡ªbut maybe they¡¯ll remind her of something more important¡ªthat she¡¯s beautiful without his validation. That she deserves better.

    Before I can overthink it, I tap Forward and type Sydney¡¯s name. I add a quick message:

    These turned out great. Miss you already. Call me when you can. xo

    My finger hesitates again, but this time over ¡°Send.¡± What if Paul sees them? What if he gets even more controlling, more critical?

    What if these photos somehow make things worse?

    But I can¡¯t protect Sydney from everything. God knows I¡¯ve tried.

    All I can do is be there when she needs me, no matter how many miles separate us.

    I hit Send.

    The confirmation appears: ¡°Link shared sessfully.¡±

    A small weight lifts from my chest. Whatever happens with these photos, at least Sydney will know I¡¯m in her corner. At least she¡¯ll have proof of how radiant she looked that day,ughing in the studio lights.

    I tap back to my download link and delete it without further ceremony.

    No need to keep them. Thest thing I need is identally opening that folder during story time with the preschoolers.

    Or worse¡ªhaving them pop up if Pavlov decides to check my browsing history after our meeting tomorrow.

    The thought of him seeing those photos makes my stomach lurch in a way that¡¯s not entirely unpleasant, which is precisely why they need to go.

    I¡¯ve spent too much time around men who see vulnerability as an invitation.

    I tuck my phone away and nce in the mirror before I go. It reflects someone I hardly recognize¡ªa woman with shadows under her eyes and worry lines around her mouth.

    But also someone who survived today¡¯s princess dress debacle.

    Someone who¡¯ll survive tomorrow¡¯s meeting with the Beast.

    One crisis at a time, Palmer.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 3

    My apartmentplex¡¯s pool isn¡¯t exactly luxurious.

    The water¡¯s over-chlorinated, the concrete deck is cracked in ces that management keeps promising and failing to fix, and sometimes, the underwater lights flicker like they¡¯re sending Morse code distress signals.

    But at sunset, with the sky painting purple over orange, it feels almost peaceful.

    Almost.

    I slice through the tepid water, arms burning with each stroke. This is one of the few ces I can think¡ªor, more urately, not think. My mind empties with eachp, my cares dissolving into chlorine and sweat.

    Lap seven.

    Eight.

    Nine.

    I push myself until my lungs protest and my shoulders ache.

    With every kick and flip, the stress of the day gradually loosens its grip on my chest. Byp fifteen, I¡¯m floating on my back, watching palm fronds sway against the darkening sky.

    But the universe hates letting me rx for more than five consecutive minutes.

    My phone, perched on my pool towel, lights up with a notification. Then another. And another.

    I climb out, water streaming down my legs, and reach for it with a sense of dread.

    Please be Mara with some ridiculous meme. Please be Sydney checking in. Please be a spam call about my car¡¯s extended warranty and an exciting opportunity to renew it.

    It¡¯s none of those things.

    Hey beautiful. Been thinking about u.

    saw those pictures. u still got it. When uing back to Vegas?

    we should talk. i¡¯ve changed.

    Drew.

    My stomach clenches like it¡¯s trying to eat itself. I blocked his number after leaving Vegas two days ago¡ªjust like I blocked the number before that, and the one before that.

    It doesn¡¯t matter. He always finds me.

    Another text pops up: I miss that body. Remember how good we were together?

    ¡°Good¡± is a stretch.

    ¡°Toxic¡± would be more urate.

    ¡°Soul-destroying¡± if we¡¯re being precise.

    I type back angrily: Sydney showed you?

    His reply is immediate: She didn¡¯t have to. Paul¡¯s phone syncs with hers. He showed all of us. You¡¯re still fucking hot, Sutton.

    My hands shake as I drop the phone onto my towel like it burned me.

    Of course. Of-fucking-course Paul has ess to Sydney¡¯s phone.

    And of course he¡¯d share those photos with that idiot pack of hyenas he calls ¡°friends.¡±

    I wrap my arms around my body, suddenly feeling exposed despite being alone at the pool. Drew seeing those photos makes my skin crawl.

    Two years of carefully constructed distance, erased with a few taps on a screen.

    When we were together, Drew had been obsessed with my body¡ªnot in a way that made me feel cherished, but in a way that made me feel like property. Something to be disyed, profited from.

    ¡°We could make bank if you¡¯d just loosen up,¡± he¡¯d say, showing me profiles of girls making thousands on OnlyFans.

    I grab my towel and phone and hurry back to my apartment, locking the door behind me. The texts keeping:

    i know you¡¯re reading these.

    don¡¯t be a bitch.

    I¡¯ve got a new gig. Good money. You¡¯d be impressed.

    I turn off my phonepletely and stash it into a drawer where I won¡¯t have to look at it.

    Drew will keep texting, keep calling. That¡¯s his pattern.

    Eventually, though, he¡¯ll get bored.

    That¡¯s his pattern, too.

    My bed beckons¡ªa modest queen with sheets that smell likevender fabric softener. I fall into it, exhaustion crashing over me like a wave.

    Tomorrow, I¡¯ll deal with Oleg Pavlov. Tomorrow, I¡¯ll call Sydney about Paul and her phone. Tomorrow, I¡¯ll figure out how Drew got my new number.

    But tonight?

    Tonight, I¡¯ll sleep and dream of absolutely nothing.<hr>

    My phone greets me before my rm does, pinging with the persistence of a demented woodpecker that stole someone¡¯s Adderall prescription.

    Sunlight filters through my bargain bin curtains, painting urine-yellow streaks across my bedspread. I wince and try to lie still.

    Maybe if I ignore it hard enough, the day will decide not to happen.

    No such luck.

    Tuesday has arrived with all the gentleness of a freight train.

    I crack one eye open to find ten new messages waiting. Great. Fantastic. Exactly what I need after yesterday¡¯s dual debacles.

    First, the usual from Drew:

    Answer me bitch

    I said i fuckin know ur reading these

    Don¡¯t make mee find you

    Delete. Block this number, too. Reset the clock on how long it¡¯ll take him to find another way to contact me.

    Next, Sydney has texted a string of messages:

    OMG those pics are SEXXXXXAY!!! Paul literally gasped

    He said the photographer deserves a raise

    But it¡¯s the third cluster of notifications that most concerns me.

    The Pavlov Industries employee group chat has exploded overnight. Thirty-seven new messages.

    That can¡¯t be good.

    My thumb hovers over the red bubble, a sense of dread creeping up my spine like kudzu. The employee chat is usually dead except for birthday announcements and lost-and-found posts about abandoned lunch containers.

    I tap it open.

    The screen fills with messages, most sent between 2 and 4 A.M. I scroll up to find the catalyst, the message that started?¡ª

    Oh.

    No.

    No no no no no.

    My boudoir photos. All of them. Right there in living color on thepany chat.

    Me in ckce, arched across a velvet chaise.

    Me with a sheet barely covering the important bits.

    Me looking over my shoulder with bedroom eyes and hair that took an hour to style in a way that suggests someone very rough and very male just spent a while wrapping it around his fist.

    The blood in my veins crystallizes.

    My lungs forget how breathing works.

    The messages cascade beneath the photos:

    Is this really Sutton from daycare???

    Holy shit who knew she was hiding all THAT under those baggy sweaters

    Does HR know about this???

    My eyes are now blessed

    I drop the phone like it¡¯s suddenly transformed into a venomous snake. It bounces on myforter andnds face-up, still disying the photos I¡¯d explicitly deleted yesterday.

    Photos that should never, ever have made it onto mypany¡¯s group chat.

    Who could have done this?!

    My first thought is that Drew has found an unusually creative way to ruin my life. My stomach lurches. Acid climbs my throat. The room tilts and spins as I grab my phone again with trembling fingers, desperately scrolling to see how the hell he posted them.

    But when I get to the top, I see it wasn¡¯t him at all.

    It was¡­

    ME?!?!

    I¡¯m an idiot. I must have fat-fingered the Forward yesterday. Instead of sending the pictures to just my sister¡­

    I sent them to every single person I work with.

    All eight hundred employees of Pavlov Industries have now seen me with my legs behind my head.

    A violent tremor works through my body. I can¡¯t breathe. Can¡¯t think. Can¡¯t process.

    Everyone. From the janitors to the executives. From my fellow teachers to?¡ª

    To Oleg.

    Oh, God. I¡¯m supposed to meet with him today. After he¡¯s seen¡­ after everyone has seen¡­

    What¡¯s worse than Code Red?

    I throw the covers back and sprint to the bathroom, just making it before my stomach empties itself. Sweat breaks out across my scalp as I heave, clinging to the porcin like it¡¯s the only solid thing left in a world that¡¯s suddenly made of quicksand.

    When there¡¯s nothing left in me, I sink to the bathroom floor, pressing my forehead against the cool tile.

    All I can think as I kneel there and moan is, Why does this kind of thing always happen to me?

    The answer is the same as it¡¯s always been: The Palmer Women Curse.

    A memory starts rolling. I¡¯m four, maybe five. Our apartment smells like cheap hairspray and drugstore perfume.

    Mom stands in front of our cracked bathroom mirror, painting her lips the color of cherry popsicles while Sydney and I perch on the edge of the bathtub, watching the transformation.

    ¡°Third date this month,¡± Sydney whispers, her voice carrying that edge of grown-up knowing that makes me jealous. ¡°He works at the Begio.¡±

    Mom catches Sydney¡¯s eye in the mirror. ¡°Don¡¯t get your hopes up, baby. You know how these things go.¡± She blots her lipstick on a square of toilet paper, leaving a perfect kiss mark. ¡°Palmer women and good men mix like oil and water.¡±

    ¡°What does that mean, Mommy?¡± I ask, swinging my legs against the chipped porcin.

    ¡°It means we¡¯re cursed, sweet pea.¡± Mom sighs, fluffing her blonde curls. ¡°Pretty enough to catch ¡®em, dumb enough to want ¡®em, and just unlucky enough to pick the wrong ones every time.¡±

    She winks, but it doesn¡¯t reach her eyes.

    The doorbell rings. Mom kneels down, cups my cheeks in her warm hands.

    ¡°Syd¡¯s in charge ¡®til I get back. No answering the door, no touching the stove.¡±

    Then she¡¯s gone, swishing and clomping out the door.

    ¡°He looks nice,¡± I observe as we peek through the curtains, watching her click-ck across the parking lot in her too-high heels.

    ¡°They all look nice at first,¡± Sydney says, sounding just like Mom. ¡°But they never, ever are.¡±

    In the present, I drag myself back to bed and stare at my phone¡¯s screen. The messages are stilling in. One from Mara:

    CALL ME NOW. I don¡¯t care what time it is.

    I can¡¯t face her. Can¡¯t face anyone.

    But I have to. I have thirty minutes before I need to leave for work, where every person I pass will have seen what I look like in lingerie. Where my boss¡ªwho already saw me half-naked yesterday¡ªwill now think I¡¯m some kind of¡­

    What? Cam girl? Attention seeker? Gold-digger.

    I curl into a fetal position, my breathsing in short, panicked bursts.

    This can¡¯t be happening.

    But it is.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 4

    The boardroom air tastes stale, recycled through vents that haven¡¯t been cleaned since the Bush administration. My cor digs into my neck.

    No matter how many thousands I spend on bespoke tailoring, suits always feel like armor welded to my skin¡ªnecessary, but fucking confining.

    I keep my voice steady as I gesture toward the final slide of my presentation.

    ¡°The cloaking system renders vessels virtually undetectable to standard sonar and radar technologies.¡±

    Five of the six board members lean forward.

    Leonie Xiao¡¯s eyes gleam with the precise calction of potential profit margins.

    Rodney Weiss and Mae Malevich scribble furious notes.

    Abdul Rahman nods, his expression thoughtful, engaged.

    Even Dorothy Fulton, who typically reserves her enthusiasm for dividend reports, has perked up.

    But Uncle Boris¡ªthe man whose support I need most¡ªhas surrendered to gravity. His heavy eyelids droop lower with each slide. The cappino that Irina brought him fifteen minutes ago sits untouched except for the thin skin forming on its surface. His chin dips toward his chest in microscopic increments.

    Forty-two million dors of my own money.

    Eighteen months of seventy-hour weeks.

    A team of engineers working like dogs.

    All of it hinges on this dozing septuagenarian who still thinks the height of technological innovation was the fax machine.

    ¡°The patent alone¡ª¡± I press a button, bringing up the projected revenue slide. ¡°¡ªconservatively estimated, would us two billion in the first three years.¡±

    Abdul whistles softly. Rodney¡¯s pen stops mid-scribble. Dorothy allows her eyebrows to climb a centimeter.

    Uncle Boris¡¯s chin touches his chest. A soft snort escapes him.

    The burn scar along my right jaw tightens¡ªmy body¡¯s tell that I¡¯m about to lose my grip on civility. I feel the beast inside me¡ªthe one that earned me my nickname¡ªstir and stretch.

    ¡°These projections,¡± Dorothy asks, tapping a manicured nail against the table, ¡°they ount for potential military contracts?¡±

    ¡°They do.¡± I click to the next slide, my voice dropping an octave. ¡°Pentagon interest is already substantial.¡±

    Boris¡¯s head snaps up as if yanked by a string. A small ssh of cappino decorates his silk tie.

    ¡°Military contracts?¡± The question tumbles from his lips, thick with the Eastern European ent he¡¯s never bothered to soften despite fifty years in America.

    ¡°Yes, Uncle.¡± I meet his rheumy eyes, registering the exact shade of Pavlov amber that runs through our bloodline. ¡°As I¡¯ve been exining for the past forty minutes.¡±

    The other board members shift in their seats, suddenly fascinated by their notepads or the abstract painting on the far wall.

    Boris tugs at his tie, dislodging flecks of dried foam. ¡°This pet project of yours¡­ it has merit?¡±

    My mrs grind together.

    It stopped being a ¡°pet project¡± a long fucking time ago. After how much I¡¯ve bled and sweat to make this shit into a reality¡­

    It¡¯s no fucking pet.

    It¡¯s a wild animal.

    And if he¡¯d pull his head out of his ass, he¡¯d see just what kind of animal: a golden goose.

    ¡°It has more than merit.¡± I step closer to his end of the table. ¡°It has the potential to redefine maritime security for the next half a century.¡±

    Mother¡¯s eyes find mine across the table. Like Boris, like me, she has eyes that gleam like polished bronze. Right now, those eyes are burning with warning.

    Mind your tone, Oleg. You need his cooperation.

    I don¡¯t flinch. I¡¯ve weathered worse storms than her disapproval.

    I return to my seat, straightening the cuffs of my suit jacket. The scar tissue on my right hand pulls tight as I grip my pen.

    A permanent reminder of what happens when safety takes a backseat to tradition.

    Boris dabs at the mess on his tie with a monogrammed handkerchief, his face flushing red. The color deepens thework of broken capiries across his nose¡ªsouvenirs from decades of vodka and entitlement.

    ¡°As I was saying,¡± I continue, voice steady despite the rage bubbling beneath my sternum, ¡°the cloaking system isn¡¯t just an upgrade. It¡¯s aplete paradigm shift.¡±

    Father understood this.

    He rebuilt Pavlov Industries from the ground up, turning a stagnant yacht-building dynasty into something greater.

    The old guard¡ªmy uncle chief among them¡ªstill clings to tradition like a life raft, never realizing it¡¯s what¡¯s dragging us under.

    For three generations, the Pavlovs built luxury vessels for people with more money than God. Father expanded into materials engineering, military contracting, global logistics.

    He understood evolution.

    Now, he¡¯s gone, and I¡¯m the only one fighting to preserve his vision.

    The vote takes fifteen minutes. I watch the hands rise one by one. Rahman, Xiao, Weiss¡ªall in favor. Mother abstains, her face carved from marble. No surprise there. Fulton and Malevich side with Boris against.

    I don¡¯t need the official count. The weight of theirbined shares ensures my defeat.

    Boris clears his throat, folding his hands over his considerable stomach. ¡°Perhaps in time, Oleg,¡± he reassures in that patronizing tone that makes me want to put my fist through his teeth. ¡°The board simply feels that such a¡­ dramatic shift¡­ requires more consideration.¡±

    What he means is, Stay in yourne, boy. I run thispany now.

    ¡°Of course.¡± I gather my materials. The beast inside me paces and snarls, but I keep it leashed.

    For now.

    ¡°I¡¯m hosting dinner on The Anastasia tonight,¡± Boris announces, already moving on. ¡°Seven o¡¯clock. Dorothy, Rodney¡ªyou¡¯ll join us?¡± His gaze slides over to me, challenge glinting in his eyes. ¡°Oleg?¡±

    ¡°I have priormitments.¡± The liees smoothly.

    Let him think I¡¯m sulking.

    Let him underestimate me.

    I¡¯ve killed men before. At seventeen, Father took me to Moscow to connect with our roots. I earned my ce among the Bratva brothers there¡ªproved my worth in ways that would make these soft American executives piss themselves.

    A bullet would solve the Boris problem permanently.

    But I¡¯m ying a longer game now.

    I slide my tablet into its leather case, already recalcting. I¡¯ll need allies. Capital. A corporate structure that can handle military contracts.

    Most importantly, I¡¯ll need patience¡ªthe one virtue I¡¯ve never managed to master.

    ¡°Another time, then.¡± Boris shrugs, dismissive.

    I nod, my face giving nothing away. There won¡¯t be another time.

    Not on his terms, anyway.

    Father built thispany brick by brick. I won¡¯t watch it crumble because an old man can¡¯t see past his own reflection.

    I hope Boris chokes on his fucking dinner.

    In the meantime, I have work to do.

    But I don¡¯t quite manage to reach it. Mother snares me before I can escape the executive floor.

    She moves like a predator¡ªall poise and purpose, no wasted motion¡ªas she ushers me into her office with a grip that belies her delicate wrists.

    ¡°A moment, Oleg.¡±

    Not a request. Never a request with her.

    Her office is a study in calcted intimidation. Antique Russian furniture with fanged edges. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Palm Beach¡¯s skyline. Awards and photos strategically ced to remind visitors of exactly who they¡¯re dealing with.

    Oksana Pavlova didn¡¯t climb to the upper echelons of male-dominated industries by ident.

    She closes the door with a soft click that somehow sounds like a jail cell locking.

    ¡°You know,¡± she says, settling behind her desk, ¡°it would be a lot cheaper to get married and have children than to keep sinking millions into one-upping your uncle.¡±

    I lean against the credenza, arms folded across my chest. This again.

    The marriage gambit.

    ¡°An angry ex-wife could easily take half my fortune,¡± I counter. ¡°That¡¯s substantially more than the money I¡¯ve invested so far.¡±

    Mother waves the thought away ¡°Don¡¯t piss off your wife, then. And get an iron-d prenup.¡±

    The morning light catches on her amber eyes¡ªmy eyes, our family¡¯s eyes.

    She leans forward, voice dropping low. ¡°With a wife and heir, you can wrest power from Boris and take your rightful ce as pakhan. If you prove you¡¯re serious about carrying on the family legacy, the rest of the family in Russia will force him to retire.¡±

    There¡¯s a hunger in her expression I recognize all too well. She¡¯s sensed weakness¡ªblood in the water. She believes she¡¯s closer than ever to securing my capittion on this particr front.

    Since Father¡¯s death twelve years ago, she¡¯s been waging a silent war against Uncle Boris. The throne, in her mind, should have passed directly to me, not sideways to my father¡¯s brother.

    ¡°The Pavlov name needs continuity, Oleg.¡± She reaches for her phone, tapping at the screen with manicured nails.

    My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don¡¯t bother looking. I know exactly what she¡¯s sent¡ªmore profiles of ¡°suitable wives¡± for her wayward son to consider. Polished, aplished women with the right backgrounds, the right connections, and the right level of malleability.

    ¡°Not my type,¡± I tell her without bothering to look.

    Her answering smile is cial. ¡°At this point, I don¡¯t care. Marry the first damn woman you see. Just get her contracted and get her pregnant.¡± She pauses, eyeing me. ¡°I know you have it in you.¡±

    A chuckle escapes me before I can stop it.

    If my mother had seen thest woman I¡¯did eyes on, she¡¯d be whistling a different tune.

    Heat surges through my body at the memory¡ªthe daycare teacher in the locker room yesterday. Feisty. Curves that didn¡¯t quit.

    And absolutely,pletely inappropriate.

    The way she clutched those paper towels to her chest, defiance in her eyes even as her nipples betrayed her¡­

    I shift my stance, trying to redirect the blood flow in my body.

    ¡°Okay,¡± my mother says, sensing advantage in my momentary distraction. ¡°Think about this. If you marry a woman and she¡¯s pregnant within the next year, I¡¯ll throw all my shares, all my power, and a considerable chunk of cash at your anti-surveince idea.¡±

    That catches my attention. ¡°Any woman I choose?¡±

    She swallows audibly, the only tell in her perfect poker face. ¡°Yes.¡±

    I can¡¯t control myughter then. Mother has never approved of my revolving door of lovers¡ªthe models, the actresses, the socialites¡ªbut she knows I have my reasons for keeping it casual.

    Which is precisely why her desperation amuses me. My reasons will never go away.

    ¡°It¡¯s a generous offer.¡±

    She leans even closer. ¡°So you¡¯ll do it?¡±

    I take my time answering. Shoot my cuffs, dust invisible lint from my jacket.

    Then I meet her gaze.

    ¡°No.¡±

    Her face falls. ¡°Oleg?¡ª¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t like being manipted, Maman,¡± I say, straightening to my full height. ¡°And I don¡¯t like being tied down. Not by you, not by Boris, and certainly not by a wife and family. I¡¯ll fund this project on my own and I¡¯ll reap the benefits on my own.¡±

    She shakes her head, disappointment etching lines around her mouth. ¡°Your pride may fill your bank ount¡ªbut it will deplete your power, Oleg. It¡¯s not a good exchange.¡±

    I turn to leave, dismissing her warning.

    Power isn¡¯t something granted by others.

    Power is a state of mind.

    And my mind is made up.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 5

    Night sys across the water like spilled ink as I push the engine into higher gear.

    The speedboat¡ªmytest acquisition¡ªresponds with a silky growl that vibrates through the steering wheel and into my bones.

    Wind tears at my hair; salt spray mists my face.

    This is freedom.

    This is rity.

    This is what I need after that clusterfuck of a day.

    I know Boris¡¯s little dinner party on The Anastasia is in full swing now. Champagne flowing, ass-kissing abundant.

    Mother¡¯s probably there, too, strategically cing pressure on board members who might be persuaded to my side.

    I could¡¯ve attended. Should¡¯ve, maybe.

    But the water calls me. Always has.

    No matter how much it¡¯s taken from me, it always wants more.

    The speedboat slices through the darkness, its hull kissing each wave beforeunching into momentary flight. I push it harder, testing its limits, testing mine.

    The ocean doesn¡¯t give a shit about family politics or corporate maneuvering. Out here, there¡¯s only action and consequence.

    Two hours pass in a blur of speed and spray. My mind works through contingencies, strategies. By the time I point the bow back toward the boatyard, I¡¯ve mapped out my next moves.

    The lights of Palm Beach glitter in the distance as I ease the boat into its slip, tying her off with practiced efficiency.

    My shoulders finally rx. The beast inside me settles, momentarily sated by velocity and salt air.

    That peace evaporates like morning dew when I round the corner of the storage facility heading toward my car.

    Two shadows. Moving with purpose.

    Too purposeful.

    They¡¯re hunched near the entrance to dry dock six, one working at the padlock while the other keeps watch.

    My blood goes from cool to boiling in the span of a heartbeat.

    I step silently across the concrete, years of training taking over. It¡¯s child¡¯s y to sneak up on them from behind.

    The lookout spots me toote¡ªhis eyes widen just as my fist connects with his jaw. Something cracks. Several somethings, actually.

    Then he crumples, legs folding like wet cardboard.

    His partner spins, a de shing in the security lights. Amateur.

    I grab his wrist, twist until the knife tters to the ground, then drive my knee into his sr plexus. The air leaves his lungs in a wheezy gasp.

    ¡°Who sent you?¡± I growl, twisting his arm behind his back.

    He whimpers something unintelligible. Pathetic.

    I drag him by his cor toward the security booth, leaving his unconscious friend face-down on the pavement. The guard on duty¡ªSidorov¡ªjumps to attention when he sees meing.

    ¡°Mr. Pavlov! I was just?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Sleeping?¡± I suggest, my voice dropping to a dangerous snarl. ¡°Jerking off? Because you sure as fuck weren¡¯t watching the monitors.¡±

    Sidorov¡¯s face drains of color. He stammers excuses I don¡¯t bother processing as I shove my captive into a chair.

    ¡°Two men breaking into dry dock six,¡± I say, each word precise as a scalpel. ¡°Where we¡¯re keeping the prototype. And you. Didn¡¯t. Notice.¡±

    The guard¡¯s Adam¡¯s apple bobs frantically.

    ¡°Check the yard,¡± I order. ¡°His friend¡¯s taking a nap by the northeast entrance. And call the police. After you¡¯re done with that, clean out your locker and get the fuck off my property.¡±

    I pull out my phone and dial as Sidorov scrambles to follow orders.

    ¡°Artem,¡± I bark at my best friend when he picks up on the first ring, ¡°we have a problem at the boatyard. Two uninvited guests. I need you to find out who they work for.¡±

    The thief in the chair whimpers again as blood trickles from his split lip.

    ¡°On it,¡± is all Artem says.

    I end the call and stare down at the poor bastard caught in my crosshairs. ¡°You picked the wrong fucking yard to rob.¡±

    Then I get to work on him.<hr>

    I drive home with my knuckles still throbbing. Blood¡ªnone of it mine¡ªdries under my fingernails. The speedometer creeps past ny as I carve through the night in my Porsche.

    The two would-be thieves didn¡¯t have much to tell me after all, but Artem will get answers.

    He always does.

    The adrenaline keeps my mind sharp. By the time I pull into my driveway, I¡¯ve outlined a battle n for the next six months: secure independent funding for the cloaking system; restructure the development team; lock down a pipeline for military contracts.

    Uncle Boris can sip champagne on The Anastasia while I build an empire.

    Morning finds me showered and suited, striding into Pavlov headquarters at 7:15. My executive assistant, Irina, materializes at my side with coffee and a look that makes me pause mid-step.

    ¡°What?¡± I demand.

    She thrusts a stack of message slips into my free hand. ¡°You¡¯ll want to see these before your 8 A.M., sir.¡±

    I scan the first three notes¡ªall from board members, all referencing something about ¡°inappropriate content¡± and pany-wide embarrassment.¡± The fourth is a handwritten memo in my uncle¡¯s spidery print: Handle this scandal immediately, or I will. The Pavlov name cannot be associated with such filth.

    What the fuck?

    ¡°There¡¯s also thirty-seven emails and seventeen ck messages, all about the same thing,¡± Tanya says, following me into my office. ¡°Someone posted¡­ explicit content¡­ to the employee group chat. HR¡¯s in crisis mode.¡±

    I drop into my chair and pull up mypany email. The subject lines scream at me:

    INAPPROPRIATE CONTENT TO ALL STAFF

    URGENT: COMPANY POLICY VIOLATION

    RE: EMPLOYEE DISCIPLINE ACTION REQUIRED

    Christ. There are days when I¡¯d trade all my billions to not be the fucking boss.

    I click the first email, fingers already poised to draft a response to HR: Fire her. Nop package, no reference, don¡¯t let the door hit her skanky ass on the way out.

    But then the photos load¡ªand my hands freeze.

    It¡¯s her.

    The daycare teacher. Princess dress girl. The one with the juice all over her chest and defiance in her eyes.

    Only now, she¡¯s sprawled across crimson sheets in ckce struggling to contain curves that could make a priest question his vows. Her blonde hair spills over bare shoulders, her lips parted in an expression that hovers between innocence and invitation.

    ¡°Inappropriate¡± doesn¡¯t begin to cover it.

    My cock stiffens instantly beneath my desk. I scroll through the images.

    There¡¯s nothing amateur about these¡ªthey¡¯re professional boudoir shots that capture every soft curve, every sultry nce.

    In one, she gazes over her shoulder, the arch of her spine begging to be touched.

    In another, she¡¯sughing, uninhibited and radiant.

    The photos aren¡¯t cheap or trashy. They¡¯re intimate. Artistic, even.

    They reveal a woman who¡¯s a fucking force of nature when she¡¯s not hiding behind baggy clothes and paper towels.

    I close the email, thoughts shorting out. I grab my phone and dial a number I rarely use before 9 A.M.

    ¡°Mr. Pavlov!¡± my personal attorney stutters when he answers. ¡°A bit early for legal emergencies, even for you, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    ¡°I need you to draft something,¡± I tell him, swiveling to face the ocean view. ¡°A special employment contract. Confidential. My eyes only.¡±

    The attorney sighs. ¡°For?¡±

    I smile, remembering my mother¡¯s proposition from yesterday. Marry the first woman you see. Just get her contracted and get her pregnant.

    ¡°You¡¯re gonna want to write this down.¡±

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 6

    My heart thuds against my ribs as I check the peephole for the third time in as many minutes.

    This time, it¡¯s upied.

    The hallway¡¯s mottled beige carpet and flickering overhead light frame Mara¡¯s distorted face as she scrunches her features into a grotesque mask, tongue sticking out at an impossible angle.

    Despite everything, a tinyugh bubbles up in my throat.

    I unlock the door with trembling fingers, the metal cool against my mmy skin. The deadbolt slides back with a heavy thunk that seems too final, too permanent for a Tuesday morning that started like any other before transforming into this waking nightmare.

    ¡°Hey, disaster girl.¡±

    Mara pushes past me, two giant smoothies from Juice Junction clutched in her hands. The familiar logo¡ªa cartoon orange with sunsses¡ªmocks me with its cheerfulness.

    ¡°Don¡¯t call me that,¡± I mutter, but there¡¯s no heat behind it.

    The nickname fits too well today.

    Mara sets the drinks on my cluttered kitchen counter and turns to face me. Her eyes¡ªsharp and knowing¡ªscan me from head to toe, taking in my unwashed hair, the oversized Pavlov Industries t-shirt I sleep in, and the dark circles under my eyes that no amount of concealer could hide.

    ¡°C¡¯mere,¡± shemands, opening her arms.

    I hesitate for half a second before copsing into her embrace.

    She¡¯s small¡ªfive-foot-nothing on a good day¡ªbut her hug envelops mepletely, steady and grounding. I press my face into her shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of coconut shampoo and that weird essential oil blend she dabs behind her ears every morning.

    ¡°I fucked up,¡± I whisper, the words muffled against her shirt. ¡°I fucked up so bad, Mar.¡±

    Her hand rubs circles between my shoulder des. ¡°Yeah, you did. But you¡¯ll survive this one, too.¡±

    I pull back, wiping at the corners of my eyes with the heel of my palm. ¡°How can you possibly know that? Everyone saw¡­ everything.¡±

    ¡°Not everything,¡± Mara corrects, leading me toward my sofa. ¡°Just the socially eptable amount of skin for a professional boudoir shoot.¡±

    She drops onto my couch, reaching for my iPad where it sits on the coffee table beneath a stack of early childhood education textbooks.

    Her fingers tap against the screen with purpose, navigating to my music app with the ease of someone who knows my password and my ylists by heart.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡± I ask, perching on the edge of the cushion beside her.

    ¡°Emergency protocol.¡±

    She scrolls through my ylists, then taps on the one I¡¯dbeled ¡°Princess Power¡± during a particrly low pointst year.

    The first notes of an unapologetically poppy female anthem fill my small living room.

    I groan and roll my eyes. ¡°Seriously? This is your solution?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t pretend you don¡¯t love this shit,¡± Mara says, turning up the volume. ¡°You made this ylist for exactly these moments. And don¡¯t think I didn¡¯t notice you had it on repeat after Drew sent that video of him and that bartender.¡±

    The memory makes me wince, but she¡¯s right. There¡¯s something about these ridiculous, empowering songs that never fails to lift me, even when I¡¯m drowning in my own mess.

    ¡°Fine,¡± I concede, reaching for the smoothie. ¡°But I¡¯m still screwed. Those photos are out there forever now. The entirepany has seen me¡­ like that.¡±

    Mara takes a long sip of her drink, watching me over the rim of her cup. ¡°And?¡±

    ¡°And I have to face them all. Today. Including Oleg Pavlov, who specifically requested Ie to his office for a ¡®Code Red¡¯ meeting.¡± My voice breaks on thest word. ¡°I¡¯m going to get fired in the most humiliating way possible.¡±

    Taylor Swift pounds through my small apartment, but instead of lifting me up, each note just hammers home what an epic disaster I¡¯ve created.

    ¡°It¡¯s bad enough that I did the ultimate stupid work fuckup and hit Send All on a private email.¡± I stare hopelessly into my smoothie¡¯s pink depths. ¡°But God¡ªwhat the hell was going through my mind when I had those photos taken in the first ce?¡±

    Mara sips her drink, one eyebrow raised. ¡°They¡¯re actually really good photos. Like, professionally done. Tasteful, even. I¡¯d bang, is what I¡¯m saying. Plus, didn¡¯t you say it was to make your sister happy? That¡¯s actually noble, Sutt.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not the point.¡± I set my cup down with a hard thunk, sticky droplets flying onto my coffee table. ¡°I did it to cheer up Sydney, yes, but¡­ it¡¯s just another example of the Palmer women making dumb, impulsive decisions to fix short-term problems instead of thinking things through.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    I pull my knees to my chest, making myself smaller. ¡°The women in my family¡ªme, my sister, my mom; hell, probably my grandmother and great-grandmother and all the way back to some dumb Palmer cavewoman¡ªwe have this pattern. When trouble shows up, especially trouble involving men, we do something dramatic that feels good in the moment but makes everything worse.¡±

    Mara¡¯s eyes soften. ¡°Like what?¡±

    ¡°Like¡­¡± I exhale, a memory bubbling up from somewhere I try to keep locked away. ¡°When I was eleven, my mom caught one of her boyfriends cheating with not one, but two of her fellow dancers at Harvey¡¯s Strip on the Strip.¡±

    ¡°Damn,¡± Mara whispers. ¡°Brutal.¡±

    ¡°Yeah. So did she confront him? Pack up and leave? Move on with her life?¡± Iugh, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. ¡°Nope. She stole his Ferrari, took a joyride through the city, then left it¡ªkeys inside¡ªin Vegas¡¯s worst neighborhood.¡±

    ¡°She did not.¡±

    ¡°Oh, she did. Then she videoed it being stolen and posted it online.¡± I rub my forehead, feeling the phantom headache from that chaotic week. ¡°Sydney and I had to move for the fifth time in two years. We spent months lying low from the cops, the gang who got caught stealing the car, and the boyfriend¡ªwho, ironically, Syd and I had actually kinda liked.¡±

    The music switches to a new track, something with a driving beat and lyrics about rising from the ashes.

    I reach for the remote and turn it down.

    I don¡¯t need to be consoled right now.

    I need to be rendered unconscious.

    ¡°And Sydney isn¡¯t any better,¡± I continue, my throat tightening. ¡°The only reason she¡¯s with a rich asshole like Paul Lipovsky is because she became a professional escort at eighteen.¡±

    Mara¡¯s eyes widen. She sets her smoothie down, giving me her full attention.

    ¡°She couldn¡¯t make enough money with a ¡®straight¡¯ job to get custody of me.¡± Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. ¡°I was fifteen, stuck in this awful foster home with five other kids and foster parents who viewed us as walking paychecks.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t know you were in foster care.¡±

    ¡°The state took us when I was nine and Syd was twelve. Our mom¡­¡± I swallow hard. ¡°She¡¯d leave us alone for months at a time. Chasing men, chasing dreams, chasing whatever felt good in the moment.¡± The old ache spreads through my chest. ¡°We saw her a few times after, but she never wanted¡ªor was able¡ªto take us back. To give us what we needed.¡± I wipe at a tear that escapes down my cheek. ¡°But Sydney always cared. She did what she thought she had to do. And I feel like I¡¯ll never be able to pay her back for that.¡±

    Mara reaches across the couch, squeezing my hand. ¡°So the photos¡­¡±

    ¡°Last week, every instinct I had screamed that no good woulde from taking those photos.¡± I shake my head. ¡°But then Sydney looked at me with those big, innocent eyes and begged. And I caved¡ªlike I always do.¡±

    I grab my phone, pulling up Sydney¡¯stest message. ¡°So now, I¡¯m paying the price while Syd¡¯s back in Vegas with a new diamond bracelet and a gift card for La Pe.¡± I hand the phone to Mara.

    On the screen, Sydney¡¯s message glows:

    Sess! He loved the photos. Lookie what I got.

    Below it are pictures of a glittering diamond choker and a La Pe shopping bag.

    ¡°See?¡± I croak. ¡°She got exactly what she wanted. Meanwhile, I¡¯m going to get fired in¡ª¡± I nce at the clock. ¡°¡ªtwo hours and forty-five minutes.¡±

    Mara hands back my phone, her expression thoughtful. ¡°You don¡¯t know that for sure.¡±

    ¡°What else could a ¡®Code Red¡¯ meeting with the CEO mean after I identally sent him softcore porn of myself, on top of already giving him a private peepshow?¡±

    ¡°Maybe he thought you were hot?¡±

    I throw a small decorative pillow at her. ¡°Not helping!¡±

    ¡°Sorry,¡± she says, not looking sorry at all. ¡°But seriously, Sutton. You¡¯re not your mom, and you¡¯re not your sister. This sucks, but even if it all goes tits up, it¡¯s just a job. There are other daycares. Other opportunities.¡±

    ¡°This wasn¡¯t just a job to me. It was my stepping stone.¡± I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. ¡°And I blew it because I can¡¯t say no to my sister, because I feel like I owe her everything.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t owe anyone your self-respect.¡±

    I lower my hands, staring at her. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ actually pretty wise, Mar.¡±

    She shrugs. ¡°I have my moments. Now, finish your smoothie and get dressed. If you¡¯re gonna get fired by a hot Russian billionaire, you might as well look good doing it.¡±

    I snort despite myself. ¡°He¡¯s not Russian. He was born here. His parents were Russian.¡± Then I blush. ¡°¡­ Not that I was researching or anything.¡±

    ¡°Your secret stalkerishness is safe with me. Now, seriously, drink up. We need to find you something to wear that says, ¡®I¡¯m professional but also not ashamed of my body even though I identally showed it to the entirepany.¡¯¡±

    Maybe I don¡¯t have princess power, but I¡¯ve got Mara.

    And right now, that feels like the next best thing.

    We go diving in my closet. Well, Mara does. I sit on my bed, stare at the ceiling, and contemte my life choices.

    Meanwhile, Mara¡¯s flipping through my clothes like she¡¯s searching for hidden treasure, tossing rejects on top of me.

    ¡°Too casual¡­ Too tight¡­ Too ¡®I¡¯m about to get fired so I dressed for my funeral¡¯¡­¡±

    Eventually, I move to my vanity and start nervously applying mascara, trying not to stab myself in the eye. My hands won¡¯t stop shaking. The clock on my nightstand keeps ticking forward, each minute bringing me closer to what feels an awful lot like my execution.

    ¡°What about this?¡± Mara holds up a navy blue sheath dress I forgot I owned. ¡°Professional, but it shows you have a shape without screaming about it.¡±

    ¡°Sure. Fine.¡±

    I can¡¯t bring myself to care. Whatever I wear, Oleg Pavlov is still going to fire me.

    So what does the firing outfit matter?

    I¡¯ll probably burn it afterward anyway.

    I¡¯m halfway done with my makeup when my phone vibrates on the dresser, the screen lighting up with a new email notification. My stomach drops, fear climbing up my throat.

    ¡°It¡¯s from him,¡± I whisper, fingers hovering over the screen. ¡°Oleg.¡±

    Mara freezes, the dress still dangling from her hand. ¡°Well? What are you waiting for? Open it!¡±

    I take a deep breath and tap the notification.

    The email loads, its sender name ring at me in bold: Oleg Pavlov, CEO.

    ¡°He¡¯s probably canceling the meeting.¡± My voice sounds small, distant. ¡°Like, ¡®Don¡¯t bothering in; just mail back your keycard and pick up your final check from security.¡¯¡±

    I scan the first lines, already mapping out how many dirty martinis it will take to thoroughly drown my sorrows.

    But then my brain catches up with my eyes.

    I read it again.

    And again.

    My jaw literally drops open. I must look like one of those cartoon characters who¡¯s just been hit with a frying pan.

    ¡°What?¡± Mara tosses the dress onto the bed and rushes over. ¡°Is it bad? Is he making you do the walk of shame through the entire office?¡±

    I can¡¯t find words.

    I simply hand her the phone.

    ¡°He¡¯s not firing me,¡± I finally manage, my voice one notch above a whisper. ¡°He¡¯s¡­ offering me a new position. He wants to meet tomorrow morning instead.¡±

    Mara scans the email, her eyes widening. ¡°Holy shit, Sutton!¡±

    I grab the phone back, reading it once more to make sure I¡¯m not hallucinating:

    Ms. Palmer,

    Upon further consideration, I believe our scheduled meeting today would be better postponed until tomorrow morning at 9 AM.

    I have a proposal regarding a different position within Pavlov Industries that may better suit your¡­ unique qualifications.

    My assistant will email you the details.

    Do not bete.

    Oleg Pavlov

    Chief Executive Officer

    Pavlov Industries

    ¡°What the hell does ¡®unique qualifications¡¯ mean?¡± I ask, heat filling my cheeks. ¡°Is that code for ¡®nice rack¡¯?¡±

    Mara snatches the phone back, re-reading. ¡°I don¡¯t know, but it sure as hell beats ¡®clean out your desk.¡¯¡±

    I stand up, pacing the small area between my bed and vanity. ¡°This doesn¡¯t make sense. What kind of position could he possibly think I¡¯m qualified for? Professional juice-spiller? Company exhibitionist? Naked sushi tter?¡±

    ¡°Maybe he wants you to be his personal assistant,¡± Mara offers, sitting beside me. ¡°You know, bring him coffee, take notes, asionally pose in lingerie¡­¡±

    ¡°Stop it!¡± I grab a pillow and smack her arm with it. ¡°This is serious. What am I going to do?¡±

    ¡°Um, go to the meeting? See what he¡¯s offering?¡± Mara says it like it¡¯s the most obvious thing in the world. ¡°What¡¯s the worst that could happen?¡±

    I groan. ¡°Don¡¯t ask questions you don¡¯t want answers to.¡±

    The navy dress catches my eye, draped across myforter.

    Tomorrow. I have until tomorrow to figure out what this means.

    To prepare.

    To breathe.

    One more day before I walk into Oleg¡¯s office and ask him which position he wants me in.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 7

    Tangy lemongrass and raw fish soak the air of my private executive lounge. My security team is sprawled across the dark leather furniture, their attention fixed on steaming poke bowls while mine is riveted on the file in my hands.

    ¡°She¡¯s got ties to the Martineks. Through the ex-boyfriend.¡±

    I flip through the pages of the background check I ordered, scanning details about Sutton Palmer¡¯s life.

    MIA parents, one sister, few addresses to her name and even fewer people in her orbit.

    But the people she is connected to have interesting ties.

    Artem pauses mid-chew, a piece of tuna trapped between his chopsticks.

    My head of security has been with me since we were kids breaking motorcycles and hearts in Saint Petersburg. The look on his face tells me he suspects I¡¯m a little too interested in this employee, but he¡¯s smart enough not to mention it.

    ¡°Drew Anton,¡± he says after swallowing. ¡°Worked muscle for Paul Lipovsky in Vegas before moving to Palm Beach. Started running with the Martineks about six months ago.¡±

    He frowns down at his bowl. ¡°Dammit, they forgot my wasabi mayo. I knew something was wrong.¡±

    ¡°I ordered extra.¡± Volodymir, young and eager to prove himself, hands Artem a small stic container from the bottom of the paper bag. Then he turns to me. ¡°What I¡¯m more interested in is those photos she sent everyone.¡±

    Mikhail, my weapons specialist, whistles long and low. ¡°Makes me want to visit the daycare center more often. Who knew we had that kind of ass hiding down there?¡±

    Something dark and possessive coils in my chest. The same feeling that¡¯s been haunting me since I saw her half-dressed in the gym.

    Since those photos hit my inbox.

    I shouldn¡¯t care what they say about her. If they wanna rub themselves raw thinking about her, it¡¯s no skin off my back.

    Still, I find myself scowling at them both.

    ¡°Shut it.¡±

    Vol¡¯s mouth snaps closed. Even Mikhail, who usually can¡¯t tell when enough is way more than fucking enough, suddenly finds his food fascinating.

    I turn back to Artem. ¡°Any proof of direct connection between her and the Martineks?¡±

    He shakes his head, beard catching the afternoon light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He grew it out not long after getting married. One crack about his softening jawline, and I haven¡¯t seen a peek of it since.

    ¡°None that we could find. She moved here after breaking things off with Drew. Traded in a townhouse for a shitty apartment and a Lexus for a beater Ford. ssic signs of a woman running from something.¡±

    Or someone.

    The thought makes my jaw clench.

    ¡°The sister¡¯s still with Lipovsky, though,¡± Mikhail adds, apparently finding his voice again. ¡°Livingrge in Vegas from what I could tell. It¡¯s where those pictures came from, too.¡±

    Vol leans into Mikhail and grins. ¡°We gotta get to Vegas, eh?¡±

    I whirl on them both. ¡°Take your food and get the fuck out.¡±

    They scramble for their bowls and hightail it while I turn back to the photo clipped to Sutton Palmer¡¯s file. It¡¯s her employee badge photo, though the pictures the entirepany has seen are the ones floating behind my eyes.

    Twenty-five.

    Foster kid turned daycare assistant.

    Nothing extraordinary on paper. But there¡¯s something about her that gets under my skin.

    Maybe it¡¯s the way she stood up to me in the gym, all fire and backbone despite her embarrassment.

    Maybe it¡¯s the vulnerability I glimpsed beneath her defiance.

    The way she trembled when I touched her, even as she told me to stop staring at her tits.

    Or maybe I¡¯m just thinking with my dick.

    ¡°You gonna tell me what this is really about?¡± Artem asks quietly as soon as the door ms closed behind the others.

    I meet his knowing gaze. We¡¯ve been through too much together for me to bullshit him.

    ¡°My mother wants a grandchild. The board wants me settled before they¡¯ll consider my proposals for expanding the tech division.¡±

    ¡°And you think the daycare girl is the answer?¡±

    I lean back, leather creaking beneath me. ¡°I think she¡¯s desperate enough to consider an arrangement. And I think having a woman like her on my arm won¡¯t hurt when I¡¯m trying to convince old-school Bratva gargoyles that I can lead us into the future.¡±

    It¡¯s a business arrangement. A deal we both benefit from. I¡¯ll get my votes and Sutton won¡¯t end up back in one of the shelters she crawled her way out of.

    Artem¡¯s expression darkens. ¡°She¡¯s not some pawn you can sacrifice, Oleg.¡±

    ¡°No,¡± I agree, standing and gathering the file. ¡°She¡¯s my solution.¡±<hr>

    I pull up to the marina and climb out of my car. Salty wind whips off the water, carrying the scent of rotted wood and diesel fuel.

    Usually, the rows of gleaming yachts along the horizon calm me, but tonight, my blood runs hot with anticipation.

    Irritation spikes when I nce around the lot.

    It¡¯s empty.

    She¡¯ste.

    Ten minuteste, to be precise. She canceled our meeting this morning, sending off a formal resignation to HR instead. Then I extend a lifeline and she doesn¡¯t even show up?

    She¡¯s ungrateful.

    If it were anyone else, this would be the end of the road.

    Actually, the end of the road would¡¯ve been when I found them half-naked in the locker room.

    Somehow, fate and convenience have intervened to give Sutton Palmer another chance. Somehow, she¡¯s be my best option to satiate the board and turn my father¡¯spany into the sess it always should¡¯ve been.

    Somehow, I find myself tied to her.

    If she agrees, it could all be so simple. Clean.

    So I find myself doing something I haven¡¯t done in neen years: I wait.

    Another five minutes pass, then her piece of shit Ford rattles into the parking lot, belching exhaust and dripping oil.

    The car looks even worse up close¡ªpaint peeling, rust creeping along the wheel wells. It¡¯s the kind of vehicle that screams ¡°notice me¡± in all the wrong ways. Not the image I need for my future wife.

    She sits behind the wheel for a long moment, and I can practically taste her hesitation. Whatever she thinks she¡¯s walking into, she has no fucking clue.

    When she finally opens the door, she uses it like a shield between us.

    Maybe she has a small clue, after all.

    I arch a brow at her over the door until she steps behind it. When she does, I almost wish she¡¯d stayed in the car.

    My eyes drop to her body, to the way her white t-shirt clings to her breasts. Those photos didn¡¯t do her justice.

    In person, she¡¯s a fucking siren¡ªall soft curves and haunted eyes that have me wanting to protect her almost as much as I want to corrupt her.

    I drag a hand through my hair to center myself. My voicees out cold and controlled even as my cock twitches.

    ¡°You¡¯rete.¡±

    A blush stains her cheeks pink. ¡°I sent in my resignation before you asked for this meeting. I don¡¯t work for you anymore.¡±

    There¡¯s that backbone again. Her voice shakes, but she levels me with eyes as blue as the ocean behind us.

    The mix of strength and vulnerability makes me want to test her, to push her to her limits just to see how she¡¯ll break.

    ¡°Then whye at all?¡±

    I take a step closer, gravel crunching under my Italian leather shoes. She tightens her grip on the car door, knuckles going white. The gesture is small but telling: she¡¯s afraid of me.

    Good.

    She should be.

    The scars on my face are just the beginning of my darkness. But something tells me she¡¯s got shadows of her own.

    ¡°It¡¯s because you¡¯re here to listen to my job offer.¡±

    She stiffens, letting me know I¡¯ve hit the mark. She needs this job as much as I need her to ept it.

    ¡°I wasn¡¯t sure if you were serious, to be honest.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m a serious man, Ms. Palmer.¡± I let my gaze drift over her deliberately. When our eyes meet again, her breath catches. ¡°And I think you¡¯ll be interested in what I have to say.¡±

    After a beat, she ms the car door closed with a rusty shriek that cuts through the soft hush of the water lolling against the dock.

    She lifts her chin, and there¡¯s something in the quiet strength of her that calls to the beast in me.

    It makes me want to im and possess and mark. To show her what kind of man she¡¯s dealing with.

    Nothing about her slimy ex-boyfriend prepared her for what¡¯s about to happen.

    ¡°Come with me.¡±

    I turn toward my yacht, not bothering to check to see if she follows. I know she will.

    She may act defiant, but she¡¯s curious¡ªor desperate¡ªenough to y my game. Now, I just have to make sure she understands the rules.

    And what happens to little girls who break them.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 8

    ¡°Let me give you a tour.¡±

    His leather shoes pound against the shiny wood of the deck. ¡°Lounge,¡± he announces, flicking a hand out of his pocket long enough to gesture to the leather couches, fully-stocked, mahogany bar, and massive TV.

    Each room we see gets a couple words¡ªengine room, salon, captain¡¯s quarters. Any other day, I¡¯d want to know absolutely everything about who made the yacht and who shuffled through whichever home good stores billionaires shop at, looking for gold sconces and rugs plush enough to double as beds.

    I picture Oleg with a Pinterest board titled Yacht Goals and have to stifle a deliriousugh.

    It¡¯s posh, obnoxious luxury in every direction, but he doesn¡¯t stop long enough for me to admire things.

    Not that I could, anyway. I¡¯m on my own tour¡ªa mental journey through every mistake that has paved the way to this moment.

    Over here is the family cycle of impulsive choices you can¡¯t seem to break.

    And¡ªyou¡¯ll love this¡ªthe inability to stay away from attractive, dangerous men has been remodeled to now include ex-bosses.

    I¡¯m too busy mapping out the breadth of his shoulders and the way his body moves under his tight dress shirt to notice the staircase descending below deck until he turns to face me.

    My eyes ping from the bronzed skin I can see beneath the cor of his shirt to the stretch of wool pants over his thighs and finally, to his face.

    To the gold eyes slipping down to my cleavage, lingering like a caress.

    I cross my arms, wishing I¡¯d worn a turtleneck.

    Or a hazmat suit, maybe.

    But no, standing in front of my mirror at home, I had to get all empowered. I told myself I wouldn¡¯t let shame force me into hiding.

    Now, I¡¯d very much like to disappear, please.

    The engine kicks on, as soft as the purr of a cat, but I startle anyway. I whip my head back towards shore, panic squeaking out of me as I see how far awaynd is.

    ¡°Have you ever been on a luxury yacht before?¡±

    The rumble of his voice draws me back, focuses me in a way that is rming. I hardly know him, but I clock the twitch of his lip that I¡¯m starting to recognize as amusement¡ªat my expense.

    ¡°Sure. I take my own personal yacht out every Friday. Sometimes, I race Jeff Bezos.¡±

    The scars on his face catch the dying sunlight, making them look molten. Based on his stony expression, he takes my reply for the ¡°obviously fucking not, asshole¡± that it was meant to be and turns back to the staircase.

    He starts walking, expecting me to follow like a good littlemb. The rational part of my brain¡ªthe part that survived years of foster care and Sydney¡¯s questionable life choices¡ªscreams at me to stay put.

    Rich. Powerful. Dangerous.

    Three excellent reasons to keep my distance.

    But when he nces back, something in those amber eyes hooks into me and pulls.

    ¡°Are youing?¡±

    God help me, I am.

    As we descend deeper into the yacht, my senses focus. I may be easily distracted by muscr biceps, but I¡¯m also smart enough to map my exits.

    The yacht¡¯s interior is a study in masculine elegance¡ªall dark wood and gleaming brass, leather worn to buttery softness. It whispers of old money and older sins.

    Every surface screams, ¡°Touch me¡± in a way that makes my fingers itch.

    Or maybe that¡¯s just the effect of watching Oleg move through his domain like a predator giving a tour of his hunting grounds. His two-word descriptions from above deck continue as we pass room after room, his stride never breaking, never slowing.

    One thing is clear: This isn¡¯t a pleasure cruise. The cheapest yacht Pavlov Industries sells costs more than I¡¯ll make in three lifetimes.

    I¡¯m not a client.

    So what am I?

    ¡°This is the second salon.¡±

    He stops outside of a door at the end of a narrow hallway, gesturing for me to go in ahead of him.

    The room is a circle of dark greens and gleaming brass. Oval windows are spaced evenly around the room, giving a sea-level view of how far we are from shore. How alone we are.

    ¡°My den,¡± he tacks on like it¡¯s an afterthought.

    Of course it is.

    As I take a second pass over the room, I see the framed pictures between the windows. Women in various states of undress¡ªtasteful enough to be called art, explicit enough to make my cheeks burn.

    No need to ask what he gets up to in ¡°his den.¡±

    I tear my gaze away,tching onto the marble chess set in the corner. No one can make chess sexy. I tip my head towards it. ¡°You y?¡±

    ¡°Would I have a set if I didn¡¯t?¡±

    I meet his eyes, refusing to be ruffled. ¡°Probably. Rich people have a lot of things they don¡¯t use. They just like to possess them.¡±

    His eyebrow lifts, and suddenly, those scars seem a lot more threatening. They transform his face from merely intimidating to downright dangerous.

    Reality crashes in.

    I¡¯m trapped on water with a stranger who could easily buy his way out of murder charges.

    I need to watch my mouth.

    ¡°How long are we going to be out here?¡± I blurt through a nervousugh. ¡°I have ns. Dinner ns. With¡­ a man.¡±

    His pause before responding tells me he sees right through my lie. ¡°Not long. Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ll get you back in time for dinner with¡­ ¡®a man.¡¯¡±

    Shame res bright and hot inside of me again, so I decide to cut to the chase. ¡°Do you really have a job to offer me, or is this some twisted joke?¡±

    ¡°No joke. I¡¯m serious about the job.¡±

    ¡°Then why are we having this interview in the middle of the ocean?¡±

    ¡°I wanted privacy.¡±

    Heat floods my face as realization dawns. y stupid games, like showing your tits to your boss, and you win stupid prizes, like him thinking you¡¯re a sure thing.

    The erotic art suddenly feels less artistic and more like a warning sign.

    This isn¡¯t a den.

    It¡¯s a seduction chamber.

    ¡°Privacy only requires a closed door at the office.¡±

    A sharp smile cuts across his face. ¡°I wasn¡¯t sure you¡¯d want to show your face there so soon after your exhibitionist little stunt.¡±

    Ouch. I walked right into that one.

    But I refuse to let him shame me into his bed.

    Even if a traitorous part of me wouldn¡¯t mind recreating a few positions from the pictures on the walls.

    The damaged part of me whispers: What¡¯s the harm? It¡¯s just sex. No one has to know. Not Mara. Not Sydney. Just another secret to bury.

    But I would know. I¡¯d know I¡¯m no better than my mother¡ªanother Palmer woman trying to fix bad choices with worse ones.

    ¡°Whatever the job is, I¡¯m not interested. Take me back.¡±

    He doesn¡¯t even blink. ¡°You haven¡¯t heard my offer yet.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t need to hear it. I¡¯m not interested in¡­ what you¡¯re interested in.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m willing to bet we¡¯re interested in many of the same things, Sutton.¡±

    He steps closer, and I stumble backward¡ªboth from his proximity and the sound of my name on his lips, echoing in the air around us.

    His brow arches. ¡°You seem on edge.¡±

    ¡°Only because I have a habit of getting myself into sticky situations.¡±

    ¡°Yes, I¡¯m aware. I saw just how ¡®sticky¡¯ your situation was the other day.¡±

    I fight the blush threatening to explode across my face. ¡°Listen, about that¡­ It was a series of unfortunate events. I had an ident while Chloe and I were ying, and there aren¡¯t any showers in the daycare center, and I figured using the locker room wouldn¡¯t hurt, but that was a big mistake. Clearly. I mean, the trespassing and the stuck zipper and the?¡ª¡±

    His eyes darken dangerously, the same way they did after he¡¯d freed me from the dress.

    I bite my lip to stop myself from talking, and his gaze flicks to my mouth.

    This is what I get for spending thest few months with toddlers and Mara. I¡¯ve lost my ability to blend in with the normal people¡ªif Oleg Pavlov can be considered ¡°normal.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not trying to justify anything,¡± I ramble on, no sign of this runaway train of thought slowing down. ¡°Just exining that I¡¯m usually more?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Professional?¡± he interrupts. ¡°I hope so. It¡¯s why I chose you.¡±

    The words wash over me like ice water. ¡°You chose me? For what?¡±

    He gestures to the bar, pointing at a green suede stool. ¡°Take a seat.¡±

    I eye the erotic art onest time before deciding that, since I¡¯m already in hell, I might as well enjoy the view.

    He slides a ss over to me, but I shake my head. ¡°Drinks and interviews don¡¯t mix.¡±

    Drinks and a body like his don¡¯t mix, either. A couple shots is all it would take to crumble the walls of my self-respect.

    ¡°This isn¡¯t your usual interview,¡± he says, confirming my worst fears with a smirk.

    ¡°If this is about the photos I identally sent?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Was that an ident?¡± The tilt of his eyebrows mocks me.

    ¡°Yes,¡± I grit out. ¡°And I think they¡¯ve given you the wrong impression. I¡¯m not?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Actually¡ª¡± He pours me a second ss; this time, it¡¯s water from a sealed bottle. ¡°They left a great impression. It¡¯s why you¡¯re here.¡±

    Oh, God.

    He passes me the water along with a stack of papers. ¡°I took the liberty of drawing up a contract.¡±

    I gape at him. There¡¯s confidence and then there¡¯s¡­ this. ¡°You already drew up a contract? I don¡¯t even know what the job is yet.¡±

    ¡°No, but I do. And when I know what I want, I don¡¯t waste time.¡± He nods to the contract. ¡°Read it. I wouldn¡¯t want you to sign blindly.¡±

    I open to the first page and stare at the header.

    Then my eyes snap to his. They¡¯re pure, molten gold up close. Lethal.

    ¡°This contract isn¡¯t for Pavlov Industries.¡±

    ¡°Very astute. This is personal¡ªbetween you and me.¡±

    My heart threatens to crack my ribs. I turn the page and freeze.

    ¡°Wait¡­ there¡¯s been a mistake.¡± This has to be a mistake. ¡°This is a prenuptial agreement.¡±

    Instead of yanking the papers away in a panic and sliding me a new contract¡ªthe correct contract¡ªOleg nods.

    ¡°You¡¯ll find there¡¯s an NDA, as well.¡±

    I take a sip of water, but my throat is sandpaper. I keep my eyes on the contract, too nervous to look anywhere else. I read, understanding less and less with each word.

    ¡°But it¡¯s¡ª Whoever signs this has to marry you,¡± I choke out, reading and rereading the next condition to make sure I haven¡¯t lost my mind. ¡°A-and¡­ have your baby.¡±

    Oleg smiles. Not a smirk. Not a small hint of amusement in the twitch of his brows. A real smile.

    ¡°Precisely.¡±

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 9

    My brain short-circuits, neurons misfiring as I try to process his words. The multi-million-dor yacht rocks beneath my feet, but that¡¯s not what¡¯s making me dizzy.

    ¡°I thought you just wanted sex,¡± I blurt.

    Apparently, my mouth has stopped checking in with my brain.

    He leans across the bar, a shaft ofte afternoon sun striking his face, highlighting the web of scars on his cheek. ¡°Considering having a baby requires sex, you¡¯re notpletely wrong.¡±

    There¡¯s that amusement again. He just handed me a contract to carry his baby, but he¡¯sughing at me like I¡¯m the crazy one here.

    I grab the edge of the bar, the polished wood cool under my sweaty palms. ¡°This has to be a joke. It¡¯s insane.¡±

    ¡°It might be, but I assure you, it¡¯s no joke.¡±

    He pours himself two fingers of liquor¡ªthe strong, malty scent has me second guessing my earlier stance on alcohol. If any interview required alcohol, surely it¡¯s this one.

    But he doesn¡¯t even offer. He probably doesn¡¯t want to waste the good stuff on me until after I¡¯ve signed his ridiculous contract.

    Which will never happen.

    Despite what he¡¯s telling me, I refuse to believe this is real.

    ¡°Why on earth would you want me to have your baby?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re young and beautiful.¡± He responds quickly enough to reveal that he¡¯s actually thought about this. His gold eyes pin me in ce. ¡°And I think you¡¯d be up for the task.¡±

    I stare back, searching for the punchline. For the gotcha moment when he¡¯ll reveal this is all an borate form of revenge for my idental nudes incident.

    But his expression remains impassive, unreadable.

    He nts his hands on the bar counter, muscles rippling beneath the crisp white dress that can barely contain all that raw power.

    The nickname ¡°Beast¡± suddenly makes perfect sense. It¡¯s not just about his size or the scars; it¡¯s about the unleashed violence in every line of his body.

    But somehow, fear isn¡¯t what¡¯s making my pulse race.

    I slide the contract back across the bar, ignoring how my fingers tremble.

    ¡°You¡¯re wrong. I¡¯m not up for it. Not by a long shot.¡±

    He doesn¡¯t even blink. Like my refusal is just a minor speed bump on the road to getting exactly what he wants.

    ¡°You haven¡¯t even read it yet.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t need to.¡± I lift my chin, channeling every ounce of steel I can muster. ¡°If the bottom line is that I¡¯m expected to marry you and have your baby, then thanks but no thanks.¡±

    He takes another sip of whiskey, maintaining scalding eye contact. ¡°You strike me as a smart woman, Sutton. A deeply inappropriate woman, but a smart one all the same.¡±

    I have half a mind to fling his whiskey at him. I imagine the expensive liquor dripping down his sharp jawline, soaking into his shirt until the material clings to his skin?¡ª

    A shiver zips down my spine, and I clear my throat to try to clear my head.

    ¡°Are you saying I¡¯m stupid if I don¡¯t ept your contract?¡±

    He sets down his ss with precision. ¡°Only if you turn it down without reading it first. That would make you stupid.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t want to marry you,¡± I snap. ¡°Or have your baby. Nothing in there will change that!¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t be so sure.¡±

    I huff in frustration. ¡°You¡¯re so sure I¡¯ll marry you, but why do you want to marry me?¡±

    ¡°If it helps, my interest in you isn¡¯t at all romantic.¡± His lip curls like the word tastes bitter. ¡°I don¡¯t want a traditional marriage. What I¡¯m proposing is a simple business arrangement.¡±

    Every little girl¡¯s dream¡ªan arranged marriage.

    Given my family¡¯s long line of failures, I¡¯ve never given much thought to the whole happily-ever-after of it all.

    I mean, do I love the kids at the daycare center? Yes.

    Would it be nice to have someone around to investigate the spooky noises in the dark? Sure would. I¡¯m an independent woman; not a robot.

    Would I like to fall asleep next to a big, chiseled body that is just the right amount of hairy and smells like?¡ª

    I breathe through my mouth to keep his woodsy scent from jumbling whatever good sense I have left.

    ¡°Business arrangements don¡¯t include sex.¡±

    ¡°Once you¡¯re pregnant with my child, you can decide to end the physical part of the contract if you wish.¡± He can¡¯t seem to stop himself from smirking. ¡°But I doubt you will.¡±

    Of course. He¡¯s seen me half-naked on more than one asion. He probably thinks I¡¯m just like the women stered all over these walls: willing and avable for him whenever he¡¯d like.

    ¡°You don¡¯t know anything about me.¡±

    I hate how breathless I sound.

    ¡°Even if that was true, I don¡¯t need to. I know me¡ªthat¡¯s enough.¡±

    Against my better judgment, my eyes flick down below his belt. Something tells me he is way more than ¡°enough.¡±

    Heat floods my face. My body betrays me, responding to the dark promise in his voice.

    I¡¯ve kept myself in lockdown since Drew, but I¡¯m learning now that all it takes is one arrogant billionaire with bedroom eyes to coax myher regions out of their self-inflicted hibernation.

    ¡°Why do you even want a baby?¡± I ask, trying to redirect. ¡°You don¡¯t really seem like the paternal type.¡±

    But even as I say it, I remember him with Chloe. How his massive hands had been so gentle holding her tiny ones.

    ¡°Unfortunately, I don¡¯t have the luxury of freedom.¡± Something flickers behind his eyes. ¡°Tradition and obligation demand that I take a wife and produce an heir. Which is where youe in.¡±

    ¡°¡®Produce an heir.¡¯ You make it sound so¡­ clinical.¡±

    He runs a long finger around the rim of his whiskey ss. ¡°Business often is. Marriage can be, too¡­ in my experience.¡±

    I have a feeling I don¡¯t want to know what his experience with marriage has been. Mine has been horrifying enough.

    ¡°Marriage shouldn¡¯t be a business proposition, though,¡± I say for both of our sakes. ¡°It should be about?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t you dare say ¡®love.¡¯¡±

    ¡°Well, it should be. About love.¡±

    His eyes rake over me, lingering on ces that make my skin burn. ¡°I¡¯m surprised. I didn¡¯t take you for a romantic. Then again, maybe the princess dress should¡¯ve tipped me off.¡±

    ¡°Believing a child should be brought into a happy home with two parents who love them doesn¡¯t make me a romantic.¡±

    Whatever part of me was a romantic was chewed up and spit out by my family¡¯s curse. Why dream about something I¡¯ll never have?

    ¡°Why do you think our child¡¯s home won¡¯t be happy? We¡¯ll both be getting what we want, and I n to be a good parent.¡± His voice drops an octave as he dips his chin. ¡°Do you?¡±

    The question pokes at a lifetime¡¯s worth of old bruises. ¡°Of course. If I had a child, I would love?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Then I don¡¯t see what the problem is. We may not love each other, but we¡¯ll love our child. It will be cared for and provided for. That¡¯s the most important thing, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    When he slid that contract over to me, I was certain.

    My decision was easy, my mind unwavering.

    But now¡­

    When did this conversation slip away from me?

    When did his insane proposition start making a twisted kind of sense?

    My problems aren¡¯t because my parents didn¡¯t get along; it¡¯s because they abandoned me. Because Syd and I were left to navigate the world on our own.

    Maybe if my parents had gone into the whole arrangement with the understanding they wouldn¡¯t stay together¡­

    Maybe things could¡¯ve been better.

    His eyes lock onto mine like heat-seeking missiles. ¡°Have I misjudged you, Sutton?¡± The way he says my name should be illegal. ¡°Are you one of those sad, lost causes who still believe in fairytales?¡±

    My palms are sweaty. My chest aches with how fast my heart is racing. ¡°You think I¡¯m the one obsessed with fairytales, but people call you the Beast.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m aware,¡± he drawls. ¡°And Chloe told me whenever you y princesses, you¡¯re always Belle.¡±

    What a pair we make.

    I lift my chin. ¡°That was a game. I¡¯m no Belle. I¡¯m certainly no princess.¡±

    ¡°I believe you.¡± He smiles. ¡°That dress didn¡¯t quite fit.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m no princess,¡± I repeat, ¡°but are you really a beast?¡±

    His answering eyebrow raise is not a denial. ¡°Depends on who you ask.¡±

    My gaze dips down to the contract between us. The paper seems to pulse with dark possibility.

    Maybe this is my chance.

    The family I¡¯ve always craved without the messy emotional baggage.

    Motherhood without the inevitable heartbreak of ¡°true love.¡±

    He must sense my resolve weakening because he slides the contract toward me, then produces a crisp white slip of paper that he ces beside it.

    ¡°A check.¡± My name is written in sharp, even handwriting in the center.

    The number printed on the thick paper makes my vision blur.

    I pick it up, counting the zeroes. Six of them. One million dors. ¡°What the hell is this?¡±

    ¡°Compensation.¡± He rolls the word around his mouth like fine wine. ¡°If you agree to sign the contract, the money is yours, free and clear. Regardless of what happens after.¡±

    I nce between him and the contract, pulse hammering. ¡°What will happen after?¡±

    His smile is all predator.

    ¡°That remains to be seen. The contract covers all the different possibilities. My intention is not to force or trap you, Sutton. If you agree to my terms, I intend on being more than fair.¡±

    He takes the document and ces it in my hands with deliberate care. ¡°Take it. Have awyer look through it for your own protection. You have three days to get back to me with an answer.¡±

    ¡°Three days?¡±

    I could mull this over for three lifetimes and still have no fucking idea what to do.

    He smiles. The sight sends a flutter coursing through me. It settles between my legs.

    ¡°Three days. And if you decide you don¡¯t want this, then you can walk away. No harm done.¡±

    ¡°Just like that?¡± I search his face for deception. ¡°I can walk away and you¡¯ll just¡­ let me go?¡±

    ¡°Consider it a promise.¡±

    I dig my nails into my thigh. If I¡¯m dreaming, now would be the time to wake up. But the pain is sharp, real.

    The weight of the contract in my hands is real, too.

    This isn¡¯t a dream.

    This isn¡¯t a joke.

    This is a choice.

    And I have three days to make it.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 10

    Maybe I do believe in fairytales after all.

    Oleg Pavlov is on the surly end of the Prince Charming spectrum, but the money, the yacht, the personal driver behind the wheel of a Maybach¡ªit points to a world where magical things happen.

    Just not to me.

    The waxed ck car rolls to a stop in front of my armpit stain of an apartment. I barely get the door closed before the car is pulling away, like the driver is afraid his luxury car will devolve into a copy of my rusted-out Ford if he spends more than a minute on this block.

    Oh, shit.

    ¡°Wait! I left my car keys in?¡ª¡±

    I jog into the street to g down the driver, but he¡¯s already turning the corner.

    I drag a hand down my face. ¡°It¡¯s not like I have a job to get to in the morning, anyway.¡±

    The million-dor contract in my hand suddenly feels heavier. I tuck it under my arm and drag myself up three flights of stairs.

    The lock on my door sticks, like it¡¯s giving me onest chance to run away and join the circus instead of considering Oleg Pavlov¡¯s insane proposition.

    But the circus probably doesn¡¯t offer dental.

    I shoulder my way inside and the wall of humid air hits me like a p in the face. The age-old Palm Beach dilemma¡ªrun the A/C and price yourself out of your apartment, or save on electricity and slowly dissolve into a puddle of sweat.

    Today¡¯s forecast: partly cloudy with a 100% chance of mold.

    I kick the door closed, shuffle through the darkness, and flop onto my bed.

    My phone is buzzing in my front pocket¡ªhas been for the entire drive back from that fever dream of an ¡°interview.¡±

    I ignore it. Turns out, I¡¯m not in the headspace to talk to people.

    Especially since thest person I spoke to asked to rent out my uterus.

    ¡°For one million dors,¡± I whisper to myself, like saying the number out loud might normalize it.

    Nope.

    Not normal.

    Still batshit insane.

    I pull out the contract, forcing myself to read every line. Every use. Every carefully crafted word designed to bind me to Oleg Pavlov and his empire.

    It¡¯s formal. Filled with legal terms I don¡¯t understand and a ton of rules and uses I have to reread several times.

    But at the end of the hour, I have a working understanding of what Oleg Pavlov wants from me.

    A baby.

    Marriage, too, though that¡¯s more for legitimacy.

    In the same world where he needs to ¡°produce an heir,¡± he also has to make sure that heir isn¡¯t an illegitimate love child.

    ¡­ minus the love.

    Per the contract, I¡¯d be moved to the digs of my choosing, where a full staff would be at my beck and call.

    I¡¯d receive a monthly stipend for my expenses¡ªmoney for air conditioning, praise be.

    And all of that is in addition to the one million dors he¡¯s dangling in front of me.

    ¡°Sounds like happily-ever-after,¡± I mutter.

    Syd and I sat in foster homes and shelters, daydreaming about the lives we¡¯d lead one day. She wanted a gold-ted mansion, and I talked about ponies and soft-serve ice cream machines.

    Now, I could make that happen.

    I could get her away from Paul¡ªlure her out with homemade waffle cones and a jacuzzi tub. After everything she¡¯s done for me, I owe her.

    Maybe this could be the fairy tale ending for us both.

    Then my eyes dip to the bottom of the page.

    Rtionship Termination.

    The contract outlines that, if the marriage proves to be unhappy, either party is free to terminate the contract and obtain a divorce. In that event, Oleg and I would share physical and legal custody of our child and/or children?¡ª

    Wait. Fuck me¡ªchildren, plural?

    Would we have sex enough to have multiple children?

    My hand drifts to my t stomach. How many mini-Beasts does Oleg Pavlov expect me to pop out?

    Are we talking Irish twins?

    A whole litter of scowling babies with golden eyes?

    The mental image should terrify me.

    Instead, heat pools low in my belly.

    Get it together, Palmer.

    My phone buzzes in my pocket again, and I¡¯m desperate enough for a distraction that I drag it out of my pocket.

    It¡¯s Mara. But before I can answer, the call drops, and I realize it¡¯s the fifth missed call from her.

    What the hell?

    Five missed calls from Mara. A dozen texts from numbers I don¡¯t recognize.

    Is this Drew again? He can kiss my ass. I meant it when I told him I was done being his favorite toy to break.

    I hit redial on Mara¡¯s number, ready to spill everything. The Beast. The contract. The whole twisted fairy tale.

    I didn¡¯t sign the NDA, so I don¡¯t owe Oleg Pavlov anything.

    Yet.

    But once I sign it, can Mara be grandfathered into the arrangement?

    Or is this an if I tell you, I have to kill you kind of thing?

    Before I can decide what to do, Mara¡¯s voice cuts through the static like a de. ¡°Jesus, Sut, where have you been? Are you seeing what¡¯s going down in the work chat?¡±

    Mara is a gossip. Even if I swore her to secrecy, she¡¯d never be able to keep it to herself.

    And something tells me Oleg doesn¡¯t appreciate loose lips.

    ¡°Are you even listening to me?¡± Mara asks.

    ¡°Sorry, Mar. I was far away.¡±

    ¡°¡®Far away¡¯ is where you might have to move if this gets much worse,¡± she snaps. ¡°Have you checked the Pavlov ck channel today?¡±

    My stomach plummets to my toes. ¡°No, I left the chat when I put in my resignation. Why?¡±

    ¡°Fuck.¡± Mara¡¯s voice is heavy. Like she¡¯s about to deliver a death sentence. ¡°I don¡¯t know how to tell you this, Sutton¡­¡±

    Is it possible Oleg was fucking with me? That he recorded our entire conversation on that yacht and released it to thepany chat?

    Look everyone¡ªhere¡¯s our residentpany slut. Not only does she wear tiny princess costumes and sh her tits to the world, she epts shady marriage contracts in exchange for cash.

    ¡°What is it?¡± My voicees out like a whisper. ¡°Just tell me.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s Monica Leong.¡±

    ¡°Scottie¡¯s mother?¡±

    The phone crackles as Mara exhales. ¡°She had aplete meltdown in the chat this morning. She¡¯s saying your behavior wasn¡¯t just inappropriate¡ªit was dangerous.¡±

    ¡°¡®Dangerous¡¯?¡± The word feels like acid in my mouth.

    ¡°She¡¯s being a total fucking Karen. iming you should be barred from working with children altogether.¡±

    I shoot up from the bed, contract pages scattering across my Target clearanceforter. ¡°She can¡¯t be serious.¡±

    ¡°That bitch has a permanent stick up her ass. She¡¯s always serious, and she¡¯s already posted your boudoir photos all over social media with this epic manifesto about ethics and professionalism and ountability.¡±

    ¡°Oh, God¡­¡± The room starts to spin. ¡°If everyone at work didn¡¯t see the pictures before HR removed them, they will now.¡±

    She winces. ¡°Not just people at work, Sut¡­¡±

    I freeze. ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°Her post is public, babe. It¡¯s got your full name¡­ and your phone number.¡±

    To punctuate her point, my phone buzzes again.

    More messages.

    More missed calls.

    ¡°I¡¯m so sorry,¡± she breathes. ¡°But you¡¯ve gone viral.¡±

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 11

    My phone buzzes on the bed like an angry wasp, each new message a sharp sting.

    UNKNOWN: Hey baby doll, I liked your pictures. Do you have an onlyfans?

    UNKNOWN: Damn gurl, you sexy. Imma be wanking to your pics aaaall night long.

    UNKNOWN: I got a boat and a water bed. Give me an hour and I¡¯ll rock your fucking world and destroy your pussy. For tits like yours, I¡¯ll even pay.

    The messages keeping, an avnche of digital harassment that threatens to bury me alive.

    Mara suggested I block them all, but that¡¯s like trying to stop a flood with a paper towel. For every number I block, three more pop up to take its ce.

    I power my phone down, savoring three minutes of blissful silence before myptop starts screaming at me.

    It¡¯s an iing FaceTime call.

    When I answer, my sister¡¯s face fills the screen, painted with enough makeup to supply a Broadway show. It¡¯s not even dinnertime in Vegas, but she¡¯s already got her war paint on.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t know you had it in you, little sis!¡± I think she winks at me, but it¡¯s hard to tell with how much eyeliner she¡¯s wearing.

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re shing that ass all over the inte. I knew those photos would pay off; I just had no idea how much.¡±

    My tongue is a brick in my mouth. I have to swallow twice before I can choke out a simple, ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve seen thements. You¡¯re fetching high-end escort prices, girl.¡±

    I thought turning off my phone would end the objectification. But here¡¯s my own sister, serving it up with a side of encouragement.

    Stay calm. Don¡¯t engage.

    But the words spill out anyway, venom I can¡¯t contain. ¡°I¡¯m not gonna spread my legs for money, Syd.¡±

    That gets her attention. Her million-watt smile dims a few degrees.

    ¡°Obviously. But there must be some modeling offers in there, too. This could be really great for?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Oh, it¡¯s amazing,¡± I seethe sarcastically. ¡°Some guy wants me to send him nudes for five hundred dors. He¡¯ll double the price if I eat a hotdog at the same time.¡±

    She hesitates, and I see the wheels turning behind her perfectly lined eyes. ¡°Five hundred dors just for nudes? Are you serious?¡±

    ¡°Oh my God!¡± I screech. ¡°Stop making this sound like a good thing!¡±

    Her frown cracks the porcin mask she¡¯s painted on. ¡°Why are you freaking out? Why put the pictures out there if you don¡¯t want anyone to see them?¡±

    Have I really not told her? Between quitting my job and meeting my former boss on his private yacht to discuss being his surrogate, I guess I¡¯ve been busy.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t put them up, Syd. Some deranged helicopter mom sted them on every social media site in revenge. Apparently, she doesn¡¯t think porn stars should be wiping her kid¡¯s snotty nose.¡±

    My sister sits back, hands raised. ¡°Hold on. Start from the top. Why did you send your pictures to your daycare parents?¡±

    Heat crawls up my neck as I exin my epic Reply All disaster.

    How I digitally shed my entirepany when I only meant to send the photos to her.

    How I torpedoed my career with one click.

    I¡¯m ready for her to backtrack¡ªapologize for making jokes and bid me farewell on my life of witness protection.

    Instead, sheughs.

    I gawk at her. ¡°This is not funny!¡±

    ¡°Well, it¡¯s definitely a little funny.¡± She gives me a what-are-ya-gonna-do shrug. ¡°And it¡¯s not the end of the world. People have seen you in lingerie¡ªwho cares?¡±

    ¡°The parents of my future clients!¡± I snap. ¡°Future employers! ME! I care, Syd.¡±

    I had ns. Real ones. Going back to school. Getting a degree in early childhood education. Building something meaningful from this daycare gig.

    But now, when people Google my name, they¡¯ll find themselves in a deep dive of myce-d cervix.

    Dreams? Dead on arrival.

    ¡°I know you didn¡¯t mean for this to happen, but you need to learn to pivot. Turn this bad thing into something useful.¡±

    With all that makeup caked on her face, my sister looks a heck of a lot like our mom.

    She sounds like her, too.

    ¡°This ¡®bad thing¡¯ only happened because you forced me to do that photoshoot,¡± I say. ¡°None of this would¡¯ve happened if it wasn¡¯t for you!¡±

    ¡°You got off that ne looking like hell. You needed augh, Sut.¡±

    ¡°Then tell me a freaking knock-knock joke, Syd.¡±

    ¡°I needed it, too,¡± she barks. The camera shifts and I catch the glint of diamonds at her throat. Blood money from Paul. ¡°Giving those pictures to Paul made me feel better.¡±

    ¡°Why does feeling better always depend on a man¡¯s approval?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not about his approval; it¡¯s about mine.¡± She leans forward, earnest now. ¡°What harm would it do to send a few nudes to some guy who¡¯s willing to pay you five hundred dors for them? That¡¯s half your rent for the month.¡±

    ¡°Is that the going price for a woman¡¯s dignity these days? Or just yours?¡±

    The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I¡¯ve gone too far.

    Sydney¡¯s face crumples.

    ¡°D-don¡¯t you dare j-judge me,¡± she stammers. ¡°I did what I had to do to survive.¡±

    ¡°And I¡¯m trying to do the same! I just happen to think there are other ways of doing it.¡±

    ¡°Well, bully for you,¡± Sydney fights back. ¡°Not all of us can survive on self-righteousness alone.¡±

    ¡°Sorry, I don¡¯t want to end up like Mom.¡±

    ¡°And I¡¯m like her, is that what you¡¯re saying?¡±

    We¡¯re in the danger zone now. Territory marked with emotionalndmines and childhood trauma.

    ¡°I¡¯m not¡ª¡± I pause, trying to backtrack. ¡°She didn¡¯t think things through. She took risks and then we suffered.¡±

    Memories hit me like bullets.

    My tenth birthday, spent hiding in a grimy bathroom while Mom¡¯stest ¡°boyfriend¡± tried to break down the door.

    Running from apartment to apartment, always one step ahead of some creep who thought he owned her¡ªthat he could take what he wanted.

    ¡°They have my name, my number¡ªmy body.¡± My voice breaks. ¡°How much longer before they have my address, too?¡±

    I¡¯m shaking now, and Sydney reaches for something off-camera. A tissue. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I wasn¡¯t thinking. Maybe I¡¯m more like Mom than?¡ª¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry about ming all this on you,¡± I cut her off. Her tears are my kryptonite. Always have been. ¡°It¡¯s not your fault. I was the idiot who sent the damn boudoir shoot to the whole frigging office. That¡¯s on me.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m still sorry about the photoshoot.¡± She sniffs. ¡°You were just so beat up after the whole ordeal with Drew. And you looked so lost¡­ and sad. I wanted to give you back some confidence.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡±

    ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have pushed you.¡±

    She blows her nose into the tissue and tosses it aside. Her mascara is starting to run.

    Suddenly, I see what¡¯s hiding under the makeup.

    My chest tightens. ¡°Is that a bruise on your cheek?¡±

    ¡°No.¡± The deniales way too fast.

    And now, I see the whole picture.

    Full face of makeup.

    Tweety Bird pajamas.

    She¡¯s hiding in her room, covering bruises, probably waiting for Paul toe home.

    ¡°Did that fucker hit you?¡± The wordse out in a growl that would make Oleg proud.

    ¡°I fell,¡± she lies. ¡°It¡¯s nothing.¡±

    ¡°Bullshit.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not a big deal. Honestly, I started it this time. It was my?¡ª¡±

    ¡°You two got in a fight, so you deserve to get your face bashed in? Syd, that¡¯s crazy.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re being dramatic.¡±

    ¡°He hit you,¡± I hiss. ¡°Remember when Dirk hit mom? Remember what we vowed to each other then?¡±

    ¡°This is different.¡±

    ¡°Leave him! Leave the bastard ande to Florida. We can find jobs together. Get a ce. We¡¯ll figure it out.¡±

    For a beautiful moment, I can see it.

    Our own apartment with working A/C and a door that¡¯s never been kicked in. Jobs that don¡¯t require taking our clothes off or sleeping with the boss. Pizza nights on Fridays. Drinks on Saturdays. Taking turns cooking and doing dishes.

    ¡°This is the dream,¡± I whisper.

    It¡¯s always been mine, anyway. While Syd dreamed about gold and diamonds, I just wanted to be with her.

    But her face is hard now. Distant.

    ¡°I can¡¯t even afford the ne out of here. And it¡¯s not like you can wire me the cash. You don¡¯t have savings or a job.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll find another one,¡± I argue. ¡°I¡¯ll save up. I¡¯ll?¡ª¡±

    ¡°I swore to myself I¡¯d never be broke again.¡± She touches her ne like a talisman. ¡°Things with Paul aren¡¯t perfect, but he gives me whatever I ask for. I have beautiful clothes and a nice life.¡±

    ¡°And designer makeup to cover the bruises on your face. How nice.¡±

    Her lips snatch together. Even her makeup can¡¯t hide how red her eyes and nose are.

    ¡°We have our issues like every couple, but one day, he¡¯ll marry me. One day, everything will work out.¡±

    She¡¯s wrong. Dead wrong. But I swallow the words. Speaking them would only widen the growing chasm between us.

    Her lower lip trembles. ¡°I know you don¡¯t understand, but not everyone can afford to be as brave and strong as you, Sut.¡±

    Am I brave?

    Am I strong?

    I don¡¯t know anymore. All I know is that I would do anything¡ªanything¡ªto save my sister from bing our mother.

    I¡¯d sign my soul away to Satan himself if it meant giving Sydney the security she¡¯s always craved.

    She spent her entire life protecting me from the worst of Mom¡¯s choices.

    In the process, she forgot to protect herself.

    ¡°The only reason I¡¯m as brave and strong as you think I am is because of you.¡± I have to fight back tears of my own.

    Her face cracks for just a second before sheposes herself. She pushes away a tear like she¡¯s ashamed of it, being gentle with the bruised side of her face.

    ¡°I need to go clean up. I can¡¯t be seen like this.¡±

    Trantion: Paul can¡¯t see her like this.

    Seeing what he¡¯s done to her will only set him off again, like it¡¯s her fault for bruising under his fist.

    ¡°I¡¯ll call you in a few days?¡± Her voice is soft.

    I swallow down a sob. ¡°You better.¡±

    She blows me a kiss and, with a click of a button, her image disappears.

    Suddenly, my shitstorm doesn¡¯t seem so apocalyptic. Notpared to what Sydney¡¯s facing.

    I power my phone back on, wading through the flood of new messages.

    Drew¡¯s name appears, but I ignore it.

    My ex is the least of my problems.

    Maybe there¡¯s a normal guy in here offering cash for pics. How many nudes would it take to buy a ne ticket? First andst month¡¯s rent on a two-bedroom?

    I¡¯m still doing the math when I see another name.

    I open the message with a shaking hand.

    OLEG: Looks like you¡¯ve gone viral, princess. I can offer security, protection, and a quiet ce to stay at my condo. All you have to do is sign the contract and my driver will be there in the morning to pick you up.

    The contract is still sitting in the middle of my bed.

    A million dors is a hell of a lot more than half a month¡¯s rent.

    I was willing to make a deal with the devil to save my sister.

    Now, the question bes: Is a contract with the Beast better or worse?

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 12

    Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of The Poseidon¡¯s wheelhouse, I watch the Palm Beach skyline recede into a shimmering mirage.

    The lights from the harbor are pinpricks on the dark surface of the water, but it still doesn¡¯t feel far enough away.

    I turn to the former Russian naval officer manning the wheel. ¡°Well?¡±

    Kon¡¯s beady brown eyes scrape over the touchscreen disy. He points to the screen tracking the real-time thermal imaging of three vessels in our periphery.

    ¡°This is next-level shit, sir. The range on this is insane.¡±

    ¡°Three miles for heat signatures. Five for radar.¡± I recline against the leather captain¡¯s chair, enjoying his barefaced awe. ¡°The AI can identify vessel ss and track historical patterns. Any ship that¡¯s passed through these waters in thest six months? The system knows it.¡±

    Kon taps at the screen, muttering the features to himself. ¡°Underwater sonar. Aerial drone feed. Satellite ovey. Goddamn.¡±

    ¡°Here¡¯s the crown jewel.¡± I bring up a ghosted ovey of invisible signals. ¡°Complete surveince cloak. We can see everything, but they can¡¯t see us. Not even a whisper of an electronic signature.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s an invisible fortress.¡± He barks out augh, rubbing at his gray beard. ¡°Governments would kill for this tech, Oleg.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s exactly what I wanted to hear.¡± I p him on the shoulder. ¡°The question is, will they pay for it instead?¡±

    I turn to look out over the bow, where the horizon stretches endless and blue.

    Like possibilities.

    Like power.

    The salt spray hits the windows as we crest a wave, and I smile.

    Everything¡¯s falling into ce.

    Well, almost everything. Sutton hasn¡¯t signed yet, but she will. I have no doubt.

    Leaving Kon to steer the yacht out into deeper ocean, I head to the upper deck, where I find Artem with his head hanging over the railing.

    ¡°Looking a little queasy there, brother.¡± I smirk as he lets out a moan.

    ¡°F-fuck you,¡± he manages through a burp. ¡°Tell your asshole captain to stop hitting every goddamn wave.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re on the ocean. Where exactly do you want him to steer?¡±

    The yacht cuts through another swell, sending spray across the polished teak deck. Artem makes a sound like he¡¯s dying.

    ¡°Forgot your Dramamine?¡±

    ¡°Took it.¡± He spits into the waves. ¡°Threw it up before it could stick. Some fucking notice would have been nice before dragging me out here. Why couldn¡¯t we do this on drynd?¡±

    I lean against the railing, letting the wind st away the lingering humidity. Below us, the hull cleaves through the water.

    ¡°Had to get Kon¡¯s opinion on the tech. Can¡¯t exactly demo a marine surveince system from your living room.¡±

    ¡°How about¡­¡± Another heroic burp. ¡°How ¡®bout you invent something for seasickness instead? Now, that¡¯s a billion-dor idea.¡±

    ¡°Only for pansy little lightweights like you. Not a clientele I¡¯m interested in.¡±

    ¡°Bastard.¡±

    I turn my face into the wind, letting it scour away thoughts of theing storm.

    But even the ocean¡¯s rity can¡¯t quite settle the restlessness under my skin.

    Artem notices. Of course he does.

    Even half-dead from motion sickness, the observant fuck doesn¡¯t miss a thing.

    ¡°Spill it,¡± he groans, sliding down to sit on the deck. ¡°What¡¯s really going on? You didn¡¯t drag us out here just to watch Kon drool over your new toys.¡±

    If it were anyone else questioning me, they¡¯d be testing the water temperature personally. But Artem has earned the right to push.

    ¡°I¡¯m taking Boris down,¡± I say finally. ¡°By year¡¯s end, I¡¯ll be pakhan of the Pavlov Bratva. And married.¡±

    He dry heaves into a handkerchief before responding. ¡°About fucking time.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s it?¡± I turn to him. ¡°No questions? No reservations? No derations that I¡¯ve lost my mind?¡±

    He shakes his head. ¡°It¡¯s about time you snatched power from that old ball sack. It¡¯s also time you settled down.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not getting married because I want a wife. It¡¯s tactical.¡±

    ¡°Sure it is.¡± His knowing tone sets my teeth on edge. ¡°Either way, it¡¯ll be good for you. You¡¯ve been alone too long.¡±

    I shift away from the railing, steeling myself. ¡°I like being alone.¡±

    ¡°You think you like being alone. You¡¯ve resigned yourself to it as punishment for¡­¡± He throws me a quick, nervous nce. ¡°For what happened when you were eighteen.¡±

    I have half a mind to throw the observant motherfucker overboard.

    ¡°If I wanted psychoanalysis, I¡¯d see a shrink,¡± I growl, though there¡¯s no real heat behind it.

    The ocean breeze tugs at my shirt, reminding me of other winds, other days. Days I¡¯d rather forget.

    ¡°Who needs a shrink when you¡¯ve got me?¡± Artem grins weakly, still clutching his handkerchief like a lifeline. ¡°Besides, someone needs to call you on your bullshit.¡±

    ¡°All I need from you is muscle and loyalty.¡±

    He raises his hands in mock surrender, though the effect is somewhat ruined by his greenish pallor. ¡°At this rate, you won¡¯t get either. You¡¯ve sentenced me to death by yacht.¡±

    Chuckling, I offer him my hand.

    He takes it reluctantly and I pull him to his feet. ¡°Come on. If we¡¯re going to take on Boris, we need to be prepared.¡±

    Artem follows me below deck, where my closest vory are lounging on the butter-soft leather, their hardened expressions dancing in the polished surfaces.

    Only a few hours ago, Sutton stood where I am right now.

    She puckered her full lips against the rim of a ss, making me wonder what it would look like wrapped around me instead.

    She unknowingly tested whether I had the patience to wait until she¡¯d signed the damn contract.

    But I do.

    Because she will.

    Which means it¡¯s time to put the rest of the n into motion.

    My men turn as I enter, quiet and reverent. ¡°What I¡¯m about to say stays in this room.¡±

    Artem lets out a small groan as the yacht shifts and then begins handing out shots. We usually save the good stuff for after bloodshed, but this kind of announcement deserves some fanfare.

    I let the tension build for a moment, feeling the weight of their expectations.

    The crystal catches the light streaming through the windows, throwing prisms across serious faces.

    ¡°Boris¡¯s time is over.¡± The wordsnd like stones in still water, ripples of reaction spreading through my audience. ¡°I¡¯m taking back what¡¯s mine. My father¡¯s empire. The Bratva. All of it.¡±

    ¡°Fucking finally!¡± Efrem raises his ss, teeth shing in his dark beard.

    Mikhail leans forward, eyes gleaming. ¡°How we gonna do it, boss?¡±

    I smile, slow and predatory. ¡°With a baby. And a wedding.¡±

    ¡°A wedding?¡± Vol¡¯s jaw drops like I¡¯ve just suggested we all give up crime and join a fucking monastery. ¡°You¡¯re getting married?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s what¡¯s tripping you up?¡± Dustin snorts. ¡°Not the part where he mentioned knocking someone up?¡± He turns to me, brows raised. ¡°You¡¯re going to be a father?¡±

    Fuck.

    A father.

    I meant what I said to Sutton: I n to be a good parent¡ªwhatever the hell that means.

    I look through the window to the darkness stretching in every direction. The coastline has disappeared, leaving us surrounded by endless, empty blue.

    No escape.

    No witnesses.

    Just my most trusted men and the truth I¡¯m about to drop.

    ¡°Both areing, in time.¡±

    A wave of appreciative chuckles rolls through the room. These men have followed me through blood and fire. They know what it means when I set my mind to something.

    ¡°To the future pakhan!¡± Artem yells, raising his ss. The men follow suit, hollering in approval.

    ¡°To lighting a fire under Boris¡¯s ass!¡±

    The cheers grow louder.

    ¡°And to making babies!¡±

    Wolf whistles and catcalls fill the air. In the mayhem, Artem slides closer, his voice low. ¡°Have you even proposed to her yet?¡±

    ¡°Not yet. But she¡¯ll agree.¡±

    ¡°How can you be so sure?¡±

    As if on cue, my phone vibrates.

    The image loads¡ªmy contract on the pale pinkforter of her bed¡­

    ¡­ with her signature flowing across the dotted line like destiny.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 13

    Of course it¡¯s a penthouse.

    And naturally, it¡¯s nestled in the crown of Palm Beach¡¯s most prestigious high-rise.

    There¡¯s rarified air, and then there¡¯s whatever diamond-filtration system the people that live up there are huffing.

    My forehead is still pressed to the bulletproof ss of the back window, gawking at the twenty-story monument to wealth, when Uri¡ªthe mountain masquerading as my new driver¡ªthrusts a phone and a set of keys at me.

    ¡°For you.¡±

    I take them both like they might explode in my hands. The contract I signed with Oleg was a detonator, blowing up my entire existence.

    My downstairs neighbor Mr. Marcello¡¯s granddaughter is already measuring my apartment for curtains, prepared to inherit not just my lease but most of my furniture.

    Even if this whole thing with the Beast is a practical joke, there¡¯s no going back now¡ªI¡¯m jobless, homeless, and couchless.

    This is serious business.

    ¡°Everything you need is on that phone,¡± Uri informs me.

    Unless it includes my dignity, I seriously doubt that.

    He helps me out of the car and leads me to an elevator. The doors slide open with a soft ding and take us directly to Oleg¡¯s foyer, which looks more like a hotel suite than a home.

    A giant painted urn perches on a pedestal of veined marble, making me feel like I¡¯ve stumbled into a museum after hours.

    The theme his decorator went with, apparently, was white.

    For variety, she went with pops of bright color in shades like off-white, kinda-white, and sorta-still-white.

    Then, just to mix it up even further, she sprinkled in variations of white that rich people probably have fancy names for, like ¡°winter whisper¡± and ¡°cloud¡¯s breath.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll have your¡­ things brought up for you.¡± Uri hesitates over the word, like my single overstuffed duffel bag hardly counts. ¡°The boss insists you make yourself at home.¡±

    It sounds vaguely menacing when he says it.

    Make yourself at home¡­ or else.

    I scan the endless expanse of pristine surfaces and razor-sharp edges. ¡°Does he actually live here?¡±

    ¡°Of course.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s just¡­¡± My eyes drift over the soaring floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a panoramic view of the Intracoastal, the undoubtedly expensive furniture pieces that look like they¡¯ve never known human contact. ¡°It doesn¡¯t look like anyone lives here.¡±

    ¡°The boss likes things?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Sterile? Soul-crushing? Utterly devoid of any trace whatsoever of personality?¡±

    His lips twitch, creasing his weathered face despite his obvious attempt to maintain stoic professionalism.

    ¡°Simple,¡± he says. ¡°The boss likes things simple.¡±

    ¡°Are you his spin team?¡± I tease. ¡°Try this one, a fun little fill-in-the-nk: ¡®I think the Beast is terrifying and possibly a sociopath, but you¡¯d say he¡¯s¡­¡¯¡±

    ¡°My boss,¡± he finishes with an amused bow of his head. ¡°And I¡¯m just the driver.¡±

    Given that Uri is built like a nuclear bunker, I¡¯m willing to bet my right pinkie that that¡¯s not all he is.

    This man has snapped finger bones before without batting an eye, that¡¯s for sure.

    ¡°And if I want to leave this ivory tower, I call you?¡±

    He nods at the phone still in my hand. ¡°My number is programmed in.¡±

    ¡°Right. Everything a girl could possibly need.¡±

    Uri takes the elevator down, and I¡¯m alone. In Oleg Pavlov¡¯s penthouse.

    I grip the phone like a lifeline, fighting the urge to call Uri back just forpany.

    Instead, I force myself to explore my new gilded cage.

    The foyer opens into a great room that couldfortably fit my entire old apartment. The floors are polished white marble, gleaming like freshly fallen snow under recessed lighting. A huge, L-shaped sofa in cream leather dominates one corner, facing a wall-mounted TV. The coffee table looks like it was carved from a single piece of crystal.

    Everything is wlessly arranged¡ªnot a throw pillow or remote control out of ce.

    The kitchen is all whitecquered cabs and stainless steel appliances that have clearly never seen use. When I open the Sub-Zero fridge, it¡¯spletely empty except for a few bottles of sparkling water. The wine fridge is better stocked, loaded with bottles.

    But there¡¯s no coffee maker or knife block. No junk drawer full of rolls of tape and stray pens.

    I¡¯m starting to wonder if Oleg is actually Patrick Bateman in disguise.

    Best-case scenario, he survives on nutrients he absorbs from the air. A grocery run is on the to-do list, for sure.

    But first, I need to find my room before I lose my mind in this museum of minimalism.

    The back hallway reveals three doors¡ªtwo standard and one double-wide with gleaming bronze handles.

    I choose door number one, revealing a guest room roughly the size of Rhode Ind. The bed is dressed in what I¡¯m sure are outrageously expensive white linens. The walls are bare except for abstract art in¡ªyou guessed it¡ªshades of white and cream.

    Door number two is simr, though it faces east instead of west. Both rooms have their own marble bathrooms with rainfall showers and soaking tubs deep enough to drown in.

    But it¡¯s the double doors at the end of the hall that call to me like a siren song.

    I know I shouldn¡¯t. This has to be Oleg¡¯s room.

    But my hand is on the handle before I can stop myself.

    The doors glide open on silent hinges. So easily it¡¯s almost like a thumbs-up.

    This isn¡¯t snooping. You¡¯re wee here.

    ¡°He did tell me to make myself at home,¡± I whisper.

    Then my jaw hits the floor.

    This isn¡¯t a bedroom¡ªit¡¯s a royal suite.

    The ceiling soars at least twenty feet high, with floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped in a graceful curve. Outside, a private terrace stretches the full width of the room, bordered by Grecian columns that make me feel like I¡¯ve stumbled onto Mount Olympus.

    The bed is a California king on a raised tform, dressed in what has to be the softest-looking white bedding I¡¯ve ever seen.

    But unlike the rest of the apartment, there are actual signs of life here. A phone charges on one nightstand next to a silver-framed photograph. A few crisp button-downs are draped over a leather bench at the foot of the bed. A book lies dogeared on the other nightstand.

    I force myself to turn away from the bed before I do something stupid like bury my face in his pillows to inhale his scent.

    Instead, I drift toward what I assume is the en-suite bathroom.

    The door is cracked open. Yet again, fate is weing me inside. Come on in, Sutton¡ªthe snooping waters are fine.

    The petty part of me would love to find a prescription for premature hair loss or erectile dysfunction that will make a little more sense of our match.

    I find nothing of the sort.

    ¡°Now, this is a closet.¡± I whistle as I y with the soft-close drawers and run my fingers along the fine fabrics hanging in rainbow order¡ªnot that Oleg¡¯s rainbow extends far beyond ck, charcoal, and business blue.

    The drawers arebeled in neat handwriting: cufflinks, watches, ties. Then there¡¯s a cab with nobel. It¡¯s held closed with a small brasstch.

    Like everything else in this apartment, it¡¯s practically begging me to look inside.

    I shouldn¡¯t.

    I really shouldn¡¯t.

    I do.

    The door swings open¡­

    ¡­ and a leather-tasseled whip falls at my feet.

    Slowly, I drag my eyes up to take in what can only be described as a treasure trove of sex toys. Blindfolds in silk and leather. Lengths of rope hanging from hooks on the walls. And in the back, boxes of condoms in sizes that make my mouth go dry.

    Oleg Pavlov isn¡¯t just a beast.

    He¡¯s an animal.

    I pick up a length of braided silk rope, mesmerized by how it slides through my fingers. Images sh unbidden through my mind¡ªmy wrists bound above my head, Oleg¡¯s scarred face hovering over mine, his voice rough in my ear.

    ¡°You signed the contract, Sutton. You¡¯re mine now.¡±

    Heat rushes to my face.

    My chest.

    Other ces, too.

    I knew a man like Oleg would have some skeletons in the closet.

    I just didn¡¯t think those skeletons would be quite so¡­ kinky.

    I m the doors closed and blink. This isn¡¯t why I¡¯m here¡ªluxurious views, tititing sex toys. I¡¯m here to make enough money to start over and get Sydney away from her asshole boyfriend.

    That¡¯s it.

    ¡°Stay focused,¡± I scold myself.

    I choose the guest room farthest from Oleg¡¯s sex dungeon and throw myself down on the bed. The mattress folds around me like a cloud, and I again suppress a moan.

    Probably not for thest time, once the contract officially begins.

    I strangle the devious little voice in my head. I¡¯ll have sex with Oleg only until I¡¯m pregnant, and then I¡¯ll never touch him again. I¡¯ll give birth to his child, write my sister a check to get the heck out of Vegas, and Oleg will be my tonic roommate.

    My tonic roommate who has extrarge condoms that taste like raspberry in his closet.

    ¡°Shut up, shut up,¡± I mutter, digging the heels of my hands into my eyes.

    I have got to get my thoughts in check. As Oleg had so nicely pointed out, his interest in me is not romantic.

    It¡¯s strictly business.

    I have to remember that. I have to keep my guard up.

    And I most definitely have to abide by the contract I signed.

    First things first, though: I need food.

    I reach for the phone in my back pocket, hoping I can summon Uri with a text and get him to take me grocery shopping.

    But it isn¡¯t my new phone¡ªit¡¯s my old phone.

    And Drew¡¯s name is lighting up my home screen.

    I open the message just to dismiss it to the lowest circle of hell where he belongs, but my blood runs cold.

    It¡¯s a photo of my sister. Even through her oversized sunsses, I can see the dark bruise on her cheek.

    My phone buzzes again, this time with a text.

    DREW: My buddy in Vegas just sent me this. What are we gonna do about it?

    Finally, my X-rated Oleg fantasies evaporate as I remember why I¡¯m actually here.

    I text back for the first time in months.

    I¡¯m already doing something about it.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 14

    At first, I think I¡¯m in the wrong apartment.

    That¡¯s the only exnation I cane up with for why bubblegum, pop princess nightmare music would be sting through my in-home speaker setup.

    I had the speakers installed when I moved in five years ago, but I¡¯ve never actually used them.

    There¡¯s also a sweet, spicy tang in the airing from the kitchen. The smell is going to linger just as long as this tension headache.

    When I asked Uri to tell Sutton to make herself at home, this isn¡¯t what I had in mind.

    I knew she¡¯d snoop. I wasn¡¯t even that surprised when I saw her exploring the apartment on the cameras. Artem and I are the only two people with ess, purely for security purposes.

    Then I saw her pushing her way into my bedroom¡­ into my closet.

    I watched her open the private cab in the back, and in an instant, I was hard as steel and Artem was banned from essing the footage ever again.

    She was still fully dressed, but I¡¯d wanted to wring Artem¡¯s neck just on the off chance he¡¯d seen her holding that satin rope.

    Then I wanted to rush home in the middle of the day¡ªanother first for me.

    But I forced myself to finish the work day.

    To control myself.

    Now, I¡¯m following the poppy siren song to the kitchen, wondering if I shouldn¡¯t deviate to the bathroom first.

    Even my legendary self-control has limits. A quick release could help me keep my shit together.

    But all those dangerous thoughts of Sutton in my space that I¡¯d shoved down are now in the driver¡¯s seat. I¡¯ve lived alone for years.

    I want to see what it looks like toe home to someone.

    I round the corner and discover thating home to someone looks like Sutton Palmer shaking her ass in the middle of my kitchen.

    She¡¯s standing with her back to me, chopping something at the counter, swaying to the music. Even with the loose jeans and sweatshirt she¡¯s wearing, I know exactly what the curves of her body look like, thanks to her viral boudoir photoshoot.

    Add that to the list of things I wish I could keep just for myself.

    I¡¯m contracting her out for a very specific purpose, but that doesn¡¯t mean I want anyone but me seeing the rest of her.

    Fake or not, she¡¯ll be my wife.

    That makes her for my eyes only.

    She rolls her body to the beat, and my cock wouldn¡¯t mind staking its own im.

    I have a sudden vision of ripping those terrible clothes off her, spreading her on the kitchen ind and having my way with her.

    If she squirms, all the better.

    If she protests¡ªwell, that¡¯s what my cuffs and silk gags are for.

    I close my eyes, count to three. Self-control and discipline are the bedrocks I¡¯ve built my reputation on. People call me the Beast, but nothing I do is without purpose.

    And dragging Sutton to my bedroom to act out my darkest fantasies would only serve to undermine our contract andplicate an already precarious situation.

    There¡¯s a time and ce for everything.

    If blue balls are the price I have to pay to maintain control of this situation, so be it.

    She throws her hands over her head, swaying her body like she¡¯s purposefully trying to make my life hell.

    ¡°Sutton.¡± I call her name, trying to get her attention and end my torment.

    But she can¡¯t hear a thing over the woman screeching her lungs out on my speakers. The entire building must be able to hear this.

    Sutton shimmies sideways toward the sink, pretending to sing into a dirtydle before dropping it into soapy water with a ssh.

    Her dancing is atrocious, but I¡¯m getting harder with every move of her body¡ªturned on despite herpleteck of rhythm.

    Finally, mercifully, she turns in what might be an attempt at a pirouette. Instead, she stumbles to a stop with a screech.

    Her wide eyes meet mine.

    I bite back augh as she trips over herself to silence the stereo. The sudden silence is deafening.

    ¡°You scared the shit out of me,¡± she gasps, hand to her heart.

    ¡°I tried to announce myself, but you were busy.¡±

    She bites her full bottom lip. ¡°How long were you watching?¡±

    Longer than you know. But I decide to keep the security cameras covering every inch of this penthouse to myself. For now.

    ¡°Long enough to know why you chose childcare over a career in music.¡±

    ¡°God, this is mortifying,¡± she groans.

    ¡°The singing was rough, but the dancing? That was embarrassing. Bonus points for enthusiasm, though.¡±

    She shoots a re at me, but it softens with a smile she can¡¯t stop. Her eyes crinkle.

    They¡¯re my favorite shade of blue¡ªthe Antic after a storm. The view of the water is why I bought this penthouse in the first ce.

    The view of her is infinitely better.

    Our eyes lock and hold long enough that I¡¯m back to thoughts of her in my closet, her hands bound in satin, her body beneath mine.

    Like she can read my mind, Sutton looks away. ¡°Sorry about the mess. I didn¡¯t think¡ª I thought I¡¯d be alone.¡±

    ¡°You will be most days,¡± I admit. ¡°Only three people have ess to this condo, aside from you. Me, Uri, and Artem.¡±

    ¡°Artem? Who¡¯s that?¡±

    I drag a hand through my hair. ¡°Artem is?¡ª¡±

    My best friend. Head of security. And my right-hand man.

    The man who has been there with me through everything, as good as family. Better than, actually, when Ipare him to my actual blood.

    I just don¡¯t know how to distill any of that into one single title.

    ¡°Actually, don¡¯t answer that.¡± She spins around to turn off the stove. ¡°Dinner is almost ready, and I don¡¯t want to learn about your entourage of muscled men until after I¡¯ve had some sustenance.¡±

    I watch her move around my kitchen like she owns the ce, fetching tes and silverware.

    One second, she¡¯s burning with embarrassment.

    The next, she¡¯s ordering me around like she¡¯s the one in charge.

    She isn¡¯t, but I like the confidence.

    Hell, maybe I¡¯d let her use the handcuffs and blindfold on me.

    With that thought, I beeline for an ice-cold shower, keeping my hands far from the throbbing between my legs. I dress in dark cks and a white t-shirt that shows off what the gym has given me.

    I head down the hall to find the dining room¡­

    Empty.

    Where the hell did she get to now?

    ¡°Hey!¡±

    I turn and find her waving to me from the balcony. The stone table behind her is dressed with a white tablecloth I didn¡¯t know I owned and a candbra.

    Music in the house, meals on the balcony.

    What next? Moonlit sex while we gaze lovingly into each other¡¯s eyes?

    Yeah. Fucking. Right.

    ¡°You want some wine?¡± she asks as I join her outside. ¡°The recipe said ros¨¦ pairs well with this pasta.¡±

    I hold out a ss to her. ¡°What kind of pasta?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a red bell pepper sauce. The grocery store around the corner was running a special, but they were still twice as expensive as any pepper I¡¯ve ever seen. Uri loaded my phone with a credit card, so I tapped to pay. Is that okay?¡±

    I nod as she dishes pasta onto my te, and I think I could get used to this.

    Maybe having a wife won¡¯t be so bad after all.

    ¡°So¡ª¡± She starts, sitting down to her own, smaller te of pasta. ¡°¡ªyou were going to tell me about this Artem dude who apparently has ess to this condo.¡±

    Her eyes pass over my exposed arms. I don¡¯t point out that it¡¯s rude of her to sit there, drowning in cotton when I¡¯ve brought out the big guns for this dinner.

    ¡°Artem is my right-hand man. We¡¯ve known each other since we were sixteen years old. He knows me better than I know myself sometimes.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s your bestie?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m a grown man,¡± I growl. ¡°I don¡¯t have a bestie.¡±

    She rolls her eyes. ¡°Sorry. I¡¯m sure the Beast only has sidekicks andckeys.¡±

    ¡°And enemies.¡±

    Sheughs, but I was only half-joking. ¡°You haven¡¯t tried your pasta.¡±

    I oblige her by taking a big bite. The vor is subtle at first. Then it explodes on my tongue.

    ¡°That¡¯s good.¡± I take another bite. ¡°Really fucking good.¡±

    How long has it been since I¡¯ve had pasta? Too long, obviously.

    ¡°Really?¡± She breathes a sigh of relief. ¡°I thought maybe I oversalted it.¡±

    I shake my head and take another bite.

    And another.

    Sutton just watches me, like seeing me enjoy it is as good as eating it herself. I¡¯m used to a homecooked meal, but my dinners consist of medium-rare protein with a heaping side of greens.

    But this te of pasta in front of me¡ªit¡¯s as humble as theye.

    And I can¡¯t stop eating it.

    ¡°More?¡± she asks, when it¡¯s clear the giant helping she gave me is not gonna be enough.

    I may not be able to act on my horniness, but at least I can take care of the hunger. ¡°Please.¡±

    She serves me another generous helping and replenishes my wine ss while she¡¯s at it. Then she checks her phone, which is lying on the table beside her.

    ¡°I gave you a new phone.¡±

    She quickly flips her phone facedown. ¡°I still have stuff on this I need to move to the new one.¡±

    ¡°You expecting a call from someone?¡±

    Again, her bottom lip disappears between her teeth.

    And something inside of me writhes.

    She signed the contract, but I never asked if there was another man in the picture. I¡¯d like to say she wouldn¡¯t have agreed to this deal if she was in a rtionship, but people have done a lot worse for a lot less than a million.

    Is there someone else she¡¯s missing right now?

    I clench my fist until the fork begins to bend in my palm.

    ¡°No, it¡¯s not¡ª Well, yes.¡± She sighs. ¡°It¡¯s my sister.¡±

    The burning itch subsides just a little.

    ¡°Is she okay?¡±

    Fuck if I know why I care. The contract doesn¡¯t say a thing about pretending to give a shit about her personal life.

    ¡°Rarely.¡± She lets out a bitterugh. ¡°Her boyfriend is¡­ There¡¯s no polite term for it¡ªhe¡¯s an asshole. A grade-A asshole who thinks he owns her. Mostly because he does.¡±

    She looks towards the balcony railing, sad blue eyes settling on some distant point.

    Some part of me wants to wipe that look off her face. I want to hunt down the bastard upsetting her and crumple him like the trash he clearly is.

    But again¡­ that¡¯s not in the contract.

    She¡¯s here for a purpose, and it doesn¡¯t include distracting me from the task at hand.

    ¡°Speaking of, maybe we should talk about our arrangement.¡±

    Sutton snaps her attention back to me. Her face is pale, eyes narrowed. ¡°You trying to say you own me, too?¡±

    Only if you let me say it while you¡¯re bound and blindfolded beneath me.

    My cock strains against my pants, and I leash down the beast in my chest. ¡°I¡¯m saying we should both remember why we¡¯re here.¡±

    ¡°Happily,¡± she snaps. ¡°For starters, I may have signed your damn contract, but you do not own me.¡±

    Our eyes hold again¡ªthe same heat from the kitchen ring between us.

    ¡°That depends on how you look at it.¡±

    ¡°No matter how you look at it, you don¡¯t own me.¡± She squares her shoulders, fire shing in her blue eyes. ¡°I have my reasons for epting your offer. And I¡¯m sure you have yours for offering in the first ce. But I¡¯m not willing to be your possession or your ything. I expect respect. And freedom.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll be respected. But freedomes with conditions.¡±

    ¡°Then it isn¡¯t freedom.¡±

    ¡°For as long as our contract holds, you will be loyal to me.¡±

    ¡°Is this about the NDA? Because I signed that.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s part of it.¡±

    She studies my face for a few seconds. ¡°You mean, like, sexually?¡±

    The word sets off a blushing firework disy. Color paints her cheeks and her neck, and I want to know how far it goes. I want to trace the heat across her skin, feel the way she responds to me.

    Fuck me, I¡¯ve never been harder in my life.

    I drop my napkin in myp as if that is going to do anything to help the throbbing.

    ¡°Yes. Sexually.¡±

    ¡°Agreed.¡± She leans closer, her scent hitting me like a drug. ¡°But I expect the same in return.¡±

    ¡°You want me to be faithful to you?¡±

    She shrugs. ¡°I don¡¯t like double standards, Oleg. If you think you can fuck me while also screwing other women, we can tear up that contract right now.¡±

    I almostugh. Like the thought of having her¡ªonly her¡ªfor months would be some kind of hardship.

    ¡°No need for that. I agree, princess.¡±

    Her eyes go wide. I can really appreciate that aquatic blue. So calm, so serene.

    And yet, I can sense the storm lurking beneath the surface.

    I almost wish it would break, just so that I have an excuse to tame it.

    ¡°I prefer ¡®Sutton.¡¯¡±

    ¡°¡®Princess¡¯ suits you better.¡±

    She rises to her feet, taking her te with her.

    When I do the same, she breaks off from whatever snarkyment she was about to make at my expense. ¡°What are you doing?¡±

    I want to seal our contract. Take her here, now.

    Ink on a page isn¡¯t enough.

    ¡°What does it look like?¡±

    I shift into her space, close enough to test my own resolve.

    Close enough to feel the warmth of her breath.

    To see the way her chest strains against her shirt.

    She stares up at me, and I know that look. It¡¯s the same one she gave me in the locker room.

    If I lifted her onto the table right now, she¡¯d let me.

    She¡¯d thank me for it.

    My cock twitches as I grab the te from her hands. ¡°I¡¯m helping clear the dishes.¡±

    I turn away from her, smirking when she follows me inside a full five secondster. We clean up together in silence, the simmering tension just starting to abate.

    When I turn around, she¡¯s looking at me, her eyebrows pulled together.

    ¡°So¡­ what now?¡±

    My phone buzzes. Artem. For once, I¡¯m grateful for the interruption.

    Because the answer to her question involves bending her over this counter, and that¡¯s not what we agreed to.

    Not yet.

    ¡°I have to take this.¡± I retreat to my office before I do something I can¡¯t take back. ¡°We¡¯ll talkter.¡±

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 15

    The first and only time I asked Drew to do the dishes, he pped my ass and told me that if he started doing work around the house, I¡¯d stop feeling useful, and he didn¡¯t want to take that away from me.

    Bastard.

    But the Beast does dishes.

    Apparently, my bar for men is so low that a little housework is all it takes to rev my engine. I¡¯m sitting on my bed, my thighs pressed together, thinking about Oleg Pavlov¡¯s forearms flexing as he scrubbed my te after dinner.

    Those golden eyes burning into me across the table.

    His scars deepening when his jaw clenched.

    I thought he was going to bend me over right there between the salt and pepper shakers.

    The scary part?

    I would have let him.

    All my big talk about respect and boundaries went up in mes the second he stepped into my space.

    The clock on my phone reads 11:47 PM. I check my messages¡ªnothing from Drew, radio silence from Sydney. Hours ago I got a text, but it was just Mara being Mara:

    Bored at work without you. Is what they say about big hands and feet true? Report back after you¡¯ve done the nasty with the boss.

    I groan and toss my phone aside. Not the distraction I was hoping for.

    A buzz cuts through the quiet, and I practically leap for it.

    Only, it¡¯s not my phone buzzing. It¡¯s the ck phone Uri gave me earlier.

    BOSS: Come to my room.

    Uri must¡¯ve programmed Oleg¡¯s number into my phone as well. I¡¯ll be changing his name real fast.

    Still, something hot and lightning fast zings through me¡ªanxiety? Anticipation?

    It¡¯ste. For all he knows, I could be asleep already. I could ignore it, pretend I never saw it.

    Except, how the fuck am I supposed to sleep knowing Oleg is a couple rooms away, waiting for me? Expecting me?

    ying hard to get isn¡¯t in the Palmer ybook.

    SUTTON: It¡¯ste.

    BOSS: And yet you¡¯re still awake.

    A second ago, I was ready to jump Oleg¡¯s bones. Now, my hands are shaking as I stare at those five dangerous words.

    I signed a contract agreeing to have this man¡¯s baby, but I didn¡¯t exactly think through the mechanics. My brain short-circuited at the number of zeros on that check¡ªat the simple fact that Oleg fucking Pavlov chose me.

    He gave me three days to think it over. Then my boudoir photos went viral and torpedoed any chance I had at employment that doesn¡¯t involve a stripper pole.

    Oleg became my only option.

    Myst resort.

    If it was just me, maybe I¡¯d have considered bouncing between women¡¯s shelters before selling my soul to the devil.

    But Sydney¡¯s bruised face shes through my mind, those dark circles under her eyes that speak of sleepless nights and worse things.

    My phone vibrates again.

    BOSS: There¡¯s more we need to talk about.

    Right. Because when a man summons you to his bedroom at midnight, ¡°talking¡± is definitely what he has in mind.

    I¡¯m no better.

    It¡¯s thest thing on mine, too.

    I drag myself to the full-length mirror in the corner, gathering the extra fabric of my pajamas in my hand. Not even a fairy godmother could turn these circus tent PJs into something sexy.

    Fuck it.

    I strip them off until I¡¯m standing in nothing but a scrap of pinkce that barely covers my butt. I could waste time digging through my duffel, but I know what¡¯s in there: more shapeless clothes meant to hide me from the world. Additional fabric that will only get in the way.

    Because Oleg doesn¡¯t want to talk.

    And you know what?

    Neither do I.

    I pull on a white camisole that rides high on my waist and let my hair tumble free from its messy bun. Onest look in the mirror confirms what I already know¡ªI look exactly like what I am.

    A woman asking for it.

    Each step down the dark hallway is another chance to bail, to rethink this bold move and crawl back into my shapeless armor.

    But Oleg¡¯s already seen all of me. Twice, actually.

    He saw everything, and he chose me.

    And I chose this.

    I push open the double doors to his suite for the second time today and step inside. Oleg freezes mid-stride by the foot of his bed, like he was wearing a path in the carpet the same way I was.

    His eyes devour every inch of exposed skin, and a sound rumbles from his chest that¡¯s more animal than man.

    ¡°You didn¡¯te to talk, princess.¡±

    My instincts are screaming at me to turn and run. That¡¯s what you¡¯re supposed to do when a beast is eyeing you like he wants to devour you whole.

    Only¡­ I think I want to let him.

    ¡°I found your collection,¡± I blurt.

    My eyes dart to the closet, and he follows the movement, a smirk spreading across his face. His scars sink in deep contrast from the lowmplight.

    ¡°You went snooping, you mean.¡±

    It¡¯s not a question. But with the way his gaze keeps raking over my body, I¡¯d say we¡¯re more than even.

    I¡¯ve shown him mine¡ªseveral times now.

    I deserve a peek in return.

    When I lower my attention to the bulge straining his cks, I get a lot more than a peek. Mental note: tell Mara it¡¯s definitely true about big hands and feet.

    Mental note to the mental note: Never tell her a single detail about any of this.

    I want to keep this sight all to myself.

    ¡°My face is up here, you know.¡±

    Color floods my cheeks. ¡°I could say the same to you.¡±

    Shamelessly, he devours me with another long look, tongue dragging across his bottom lip like he can taste me already. ¡°We can always talk tomorrow.¡±

    He takes a step forward. I fall back instinctively. He stops, eyebrows rising.

    ¡°I-I¡¯m sorry,¡± I whisper. ¡°I?¡ª¡±

    I don¡¯t know how to have sex for money. I¡¯ve never sold myself before.

    But this doesn¡¯t feel like what Sydney did to survive. The men who paid her would have taken anyone with a pulse and the right parts. They just wanted a warm body.

    Oleg chose me.

    He wants me, even if it¡¯s not romantically. Something about that soothes the phantom ache in my chest.

    He doesn¡¯t look annoyed. Then again, it¡¯s impossible to read anything behind that impassive mask.

    ¡°If you need more time?¡ª¡±

    ¡°It wouldn¡¯t help.¡± I swallow hard. ¡°I mean, I¡¯m just nervous. I¡¯ll always be nervous. Until we¡­ Well, I¡¯d rather jump in head first.¡±

    ¡°Head first is my preferred method.¡±

    His golden eyes have gone ck with hunger. His lips are parted on heavy breaths, and as long as I can see his perfect, chiseled face¡ªhis perfect everything¡ªI¡¯m never going to be able to rx. I¡¯ll implode.

    Maybe I already have. It¡¯s the only exnation for whates out of my mouth next:

    ¡°I want to be blindfolded. And bound.¡±

    It¡¯s his turn to arch back, forehead creasing. ¡°You want to be¡­? Fucking hell. Are you sure?¡±

    ¡°I think it¡­ It will be easier if I don¡¯t look at you.¡± A frown sears across his face and I scramble to exin. ¡°Not like that. I mean, you¡¯re you. The fewer senses I have to use, the less overwhelming this will be.¡±

    He hesitates, and I¡¯m sure my mania has killed whatever mood he was in.

    But then he turns towards the closet. When he returns, he¡¯s carrying a red blindfold and handcuffs that look way too real.

    Another bolt of terrorced anticipation hits me. But it¡¯s toote to back out now.

    Oleg circles me slowly, his eyes washing over me likeva. When he finally touches me, electricity arcs through my body. I¡¯ve never felt anything this visceral before. Not with any other man.

    He takes my hand, the metal of the cuffs cold against my skin. ¡°You really want this?¡±

    His voice is deep. It reverberates through me, leaving echoes in its wake.

    But as nervous as I am, I know what I want.

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    The cuff clicks around my wrist with a sharp snap. Oleg tightens it just enough to squeeze, then he uses the other to pull me to his bed.

    I follow behind him, stumbling through a dream. This can¡¯t be real.

    Oleg lowers me to the edge of the mattress, his broad body between my legs.

    I should be intimidated; he¡¯s much bigger up close.

    But I want to reach out and touch him, feel his warm skin under my fingertips. I want to prove to myself that this is real.

    That I¡¯m really doing this.

    He closes the distance between us, pushing me back onto the bed. His hand scrapes along my arm to my wrist¡­

    ¡­ then he cuffs one hand to the headboard. And then the other.

    Suddenly, my nerves surge back.

    ¡°M-maybe I need the blindfold now¡­¡±

    His jaw clenches. ¡°Do I scare you, Sutton?¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    That¡¯s a lie.

    He knows it, too.

    He smirks as he shifts closer. His erection presses against my inner thigh. He parts my legs with his knee and rubs himself against the soaked fabric of my panties until I moan.

    ¡°See? No need to be scared. I¡¯ll be careful.¡± The words are hot in my ear. He nips at my lobe, circling it slowly with his tongue as his hand strokes down my chest. ¡°How fond are you of this shirt?¡±

    ¡°Umm¡­¡± I can¡¯t form words. Not when his hands are on my body. His breath in my ear.

    Before I can form a sentence, he tears my shirt off in one swift tug. I gasp as my breasts spill free.

    His eyes dte as he takes me in. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever felt so desired, so wanted in my whole life.

    ¡°The pictures don¡¯t do you justice,¡± he growls.

    Somehow, the idea of him going through my boudoir photoshoot isn¡¯t nearly as mortifying as it once was.

    ¡°Did you like what you saw?¡±

    He drags the long, hard length of himself against my panties in answer. ¡°You have no idea.¡±

    Then he rips those off, too.

    ¡°Do you n on ripping off all my clothes?¡± I do my best to sound annoyed, but I¡¯m breathless. ¡°Because¡­ I¡¯m¡­ gonna run out at some point.¡±

    He chuckles, deep and throaty, sending a vibration through my very core. He could probably knock me up with hisugh alone.

    ¡°I¡¯ll buy you new clothes. It was on my to-do list already.¡±

    ¡°Is there something wrong with my clothes?¡±

    His lips tickle their way down my neck. I twist away, just because the sensation of him is too much, but I don¡¯t get far with the cuffs around my wrists.

    ¡°Only that you wear too many of them.¡±

    His lips leave my neck for my breasts. As he circles my right nipple, I moan. When he pivots to my left, I arch off the bed.

    I¡¯m already straining against my cuffs, desperate to curl my fingers through his thick hair. He smirks up at me, all shadows and amusement.

    ¡°You asked for this, Sutton.¡±

    I¡¯d ask for it again, too.

    I¡¯d beg.

    Plead.

    Anything to keep his attention on me. To reach the finish line I¡¯m rapidly approaching.

    He sucks my nipple into his mouth, and I cry out. I squirm closer, widening my legs, inviting him in.

    But Oleg takes his time. He moves at his own pace, enjoying the taste of my skin and the way I gasp and moan with every new touch.

    I know because he keeps praising me.

    ¡°You sound so pretty when you¡¯re moaning for me,¡± he whispers in a hushed tone.

    We called this just business. But it doesn¡¯t feel like that. It doesn¡¯t feel clinical.

    It feels fucking unholy.

    But whatever it is, I¡¯m powerless to stop it as his hand slides between my legs. I know he can feel how wet I am, how ready I am.

    He groans when his middle finger disappears into me. Then another.

    I thought I wanted to be blindfolded, but watching him thrust his fingers into me¡ªwatching him watch his fingers disappear inside of me¡ªis almost enough to send me over the edge.

    He¡¯s entranced by the way I take him, the way I roll my hips to take him deeper.

    And when he strokes his fingers inside of me, curling against my detonation point, I scream.

    Oleg moves with me, one arm banded behind my back, holding me as I dissolve in his arms and on his hand. Wave after wave of the most powerful orgasm I¡¯ve ever felt has me drowning, but he strokes me back to earth with soft caresses and a single kiss to the soft skin of my hip.

    I¡¯m sagging from the headboard when his warmth slips away.

    My hands strain against the cuffs, desperate to touch him, to pull him closer. I need more¡ªI need all of him.

    But I¡¯m bound and at his mercy.

    The slide and click of his nightstand drawer cuts through my fog of need. The crinkle of a wrapper.

    Oleg holds the condom between his teeth, ready to tear, when our eyes lock.

    Understanding hits us both like a bullet between the ribs.

    We don¡¯t need it.

    I¡¯ve never had sex without a condom. It¡¯s something I should have thought about before now, but my brain has been too busy short-circuiting over the reality of Oleg Pavlov wanting me.

    There will be nothing between us. Because we¡¯re not just having sex¡ªwe¡¯re trying to make a baby.

    His face changes as he stares at the wrapper, something dark and haunted crossing his expression.

    ¡°I almost forgot.¡± The wordse out strangled, like they¡¯re meant for someone else.

    For the first time, I see a crack in his armor. A glimpse of the man beneath the Beast.

    He rolls away abruptly, muscles rigid under his shirt. The condom drops back into the drawer with a finality that makes my chest ache. His shoulders rise and fall with harsh breaths as he stands with his back to me, and I realize he is still fully clothed.

    ¡°Oleg¡­?¡± His namees out as a broken whisper.

    When he turns, his face is a mask again, but his eyes¡­ God, his eyes are wild with something that looks like panic.

    He releases the cuffs with mechanical movements, refusing to meet my gaze.

    I rub my wrists, searching his face for any hint of what went wrong. ¡°Did I¡­ did I do something?¡±

    ¡°You did nothing,¡± he snarls, but the rage in his voice doesn¡¯t match the lost look in his eyes.

    For a split second, those golden irises meet mine, and I see too much¡ªfear, want, pain.

    Then he blinks, and all of it disappears.

    ¡°Get some rest.¡± It¡¯s amand that leaves no room for argument. ¡°We¡¯ll talk tomorrow.¡±

    I start to slide off the bed, but his voice cracks like a whip.

    ¡°No. Stay here. I¡¯ll go.¡±

    Theforternds over me like a shield, hiding my body from his view. He turns away instantly, like he can¡¯t bear to look at me anymore.

    Then he¡¯s gone.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 16

    He ghosted me.

    The empty bed beside me confirms what my pride refuses to acknowledge¡ªI¡¯ve been dumped faster than a bad habit.

    No note.

    No text.

    No exnation for why he mmed on the brakes when I wasid out before him like an all-you-can-eat buffet.

    Even my Princess Pop ylist¡ªcarefully curated for moments of crisis just like this¡ªisn¡¯t cutting through the cloud of confusion hanging over me.

    I scroll through my notifications again, knowing damn well there¡¯s nothing from him. My new phone is as pristine and empty as his side of the bed.

    Fact: Oleg Pavlov doesn¡¯t owe me anything.

    Also fact: An exnation wouldn¡¯t have killed him.

    It¡¯s not like I¡¯m chomping at the bit to get his baby inside of me. I could use a few days¡ªor years¡ªto settle into this new arrangement.

    But that¡¯s what we agreed to. It¡¯s in the contract: Sex is for baby-making.

    So what was the point of getting me offst night and then bailing?

    The hot and cold of it all has my head spinning more than it already was.

    As I slide out of his bed, the cuffs slip onto the floor with a rattle. I can¡¯t even look at them without blushing¡ªbutst night, I had them on.

    I let him handcuff me to his bed.

    I hurry out of his room and into mine, mming the door closed just as my old phone vibrates on the nightstand. Just the sight of Mara¡¯s name has me feeling homesick.

    ¡°Girl, where are you?¡± she asks when I answer the call. ¡°I stopped by your ce this morning before work. I brought you matcha and everything.¡±

    I chew my lip, trying to construct a lie that won¡¯t trip over any of the rules in Oleg¡¯s contract. ¡°I¡¯m just¡­ out.¡±

    Nice. Smooth. Not suspicious at all.

    ¡°If you¡¯re back with Drew, I swear to God¡­¡± she growls. ¡°I have a canning jar with his ball sack¡¯s name all over it. The name is Teeny Weenie, just by the way.¡±

    I nearly gag. ¡°I¡¯d rather French kiss a cactus, Mar. Never ever getting back together, remember?¡±

    ¡°Swear on Taylor Swift?¡±

    ¡°I swear on you,¡± I vow. ¡°That¡¯s much more sacred.¡±

    She sighs in obvious relief. ¡°Good. I thought maybe you went to see Sydney again. I mean, after getting fired and riling up the inte with your titties, I¡¯d understand.¡±

    ¡°Mara.¡±

    ¡°What? They¡¯re good titties, okay? You should be proud, no matter what the stuck-up parents from the daycare center have to say about them.¡±

    I drop my face into my palm. Honestly, with Oleg washing dishes and finger fucking me, I almost forgot that my reputation has been blown to absolute bits.

    The hits just keep oning.

    ¡°I couldn¡¯t go see Syd even if I wanted to. Paul is being an asshole again.¡±

    ¡°He hit her?¡± Mara is familiar enough with my sister¡¯s ongoing tragedy that it¡¯s not even a question. Paul abusing Syd is an inevitability at this point.

    I sigh. ¡°Last time we talked, she had ck eyes and a bruised cheek.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m going to need more canning jars.¡± She clicks her tongue. ¡°Please tell me she¡¯s finally leaving him.¡±

    If only my sister had the kind of confidence Mara does. She doesn¡¯t take shit from anyone. She¡¯d never let a man hit her.

    Or buy her body.

    Mara is a firecracker, but she knows how to stand up for herself. How to take action.

    It¡¯s why I wish I could tell her what was going on with Oleg¡ªget her advice on what to do after the disaster that wasst night.

    She knows he offered me a private position, but I¡¯m letting her think I¡¯m his personal assistant.

    That¡¯s better than being his personal concubine.

    ¡°Not yet, but¡­ I¡¯m working on it.¡±

    ¡°What does that mean?¡±

    I hear her re her horn through the phone. She¡¯s heading into work.

    I wonder if Oleg is already there. If he¡¯s thinking about what happenedst night.

    A message notification lights up my phone. I check it, hoping it¡¯s him.

    It is not.

    DREW: You nning to take care of Syd when she¡¯s in Dubai? Paul dragged her there for a week-long party. Say the word and we can crash it together.

    My stomach drops through the floor. Of all the stupid, reckless things my sister could do¡­

    ¡°Sut? You still there?¡±

    ¡°Yeah. Yes. I¡¯m¡ª I¡¯m working on it,¡± I repeat. ¡°I have to go.¡±

    ¡°The Beast cracking that whip?¡±

    I can hear her suggestive eyebrow wag through the phone.

    Considering I now know what his literal whip looks like, I don¡¯t find it especially funny.

    ¡°Bye, Mara.¡±

    I end the call and stare at Drew¡¯s message. My fingers hover over the keyboard, itching to tell him exactly where he can shove his rescue mission.

    SUTTON: I¡¯d rather chop off my own arm and eat it than go anywhere with you.

    DREW: So you don¡¯t give a shit about your sister? Good to know.

    Bastard. He always knows exactly which buttons to push.

    SUTTON: Using Sydney to get to me? That¡¯s low, even for you.

    DREW: This isn¡¯t about us. It¡¯s about Sydney. We need to help her.

    SUTTON: Funny how you weren¡¯t interested in helping when you were on Lipovsky¡¯s payroll.

    DREW: I thought you cared enough to save her from him. Men like that don¡¯t change, Sutton.

    I drop the phone like it¡¯s burning my hands. He¡¯s right about one thing¡ªmen like Lipovsky don¡¯t change.

    But neither do men like Drew.<hr>

    I do my best to stay busy: ordering groceries, unpacking my single duffel bag into one of the drawers in the guest room, walkingps around the living room.

    But when my phone dingste afternoon, I lunge for it like a desperate, rabid animal.

    OLEG: Swamped today. Won¡¯t be home tilter. Sending Artem over for dinner.

    That¡¯s it? After what happenedst night¡ªafter he had me spread out and begging in his bed¡ªthat¡¯s all he has to say?

    My fingers fly across the screen, fury making them shake.

    SUTTON: Is Artem filling in for all your obligations today?

    My thumb hovers over Send as I debate whether I¡¯m brave enough¡ªor stupid enough¡ªto poke The Beast.

    Is that what I am to Oleg? An obligation? One more thing to cross off his to-do list?

    I¡¯d love to make him feel as low as I do, but I also don¡¯t want him to know he has the power to upset me.

    The elevator¡¯s inte saves me from myself.

    ¡°Sutton?¡± A deep voice echoes through the apartment. ¡°This is Artem. Oleg should¡¯ve told you I wasing.¡±

    An eerie wail pierces the background before I stomp down the hall and smash the button. ¡°He told me exactly five seconds ago. If he¡¯d give me more notice, I would¡¯ve said I¡¯d rather be alone.¡±

    ¡°Sorry, what was that?¡± Artem asks as the wail subsides.

    What the hell was that? Is this penthouse haunted with child ghosts? Of all the things, that might actually be a dealbreaker.

    I sigh. ¡°Nothing. Come on up.¡±

    ¡°I thought you already had ess?¡±

    ¡°Well, I do¡­ I just didn¡¯t want to impose. You should have the right to turn me away if that¡¯s what you want. Although, I warn you, you¡¯ll probably regret it; I¡¯m a hoot and a half.¡±

    Dammit. Now, I¡¯ll even feel bad trying to kick him out early.

    With an eye roll, I grant him ess.

    But it¡¯s only as the elevator light blinks, alerting me to his ascent, that I register what he said.

    Us?

    I nce down at my ratty shorts and tank top. If I¡¯m about to be host to ackey dinner party, maybe I should put on something nicer.

    Then again, if Oleg wants me to y the part of hostess, maybe he should give me more warning. Besides, I¡¯m not trying to impress anybody.

    Then the shiny doors slide open and a six-year-old girles streaking into the foyer.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 17

    It¡¯s an ambush.

    The little girl bounces to her feet, pink bow askew in her silky hair. Behind her, a man with short blonde hair and an easy smile is shaking his head. A heavily pregnant woman stands next to him, a chubby toddler bnced on her hip.

    Four strangers.

    Four and a half, counting the baby bump.

    ¡°Erm¡­ Artem?¡± I ask, fighting to keep my voice level despite my irritation.

    This is a trick. A trap. Oleg hired adorable child actors to break down my willpower.

    ¡°Artem & Co.,¡± he corrects with an infuriating grin.

    ¡°Art,¡± the woman chides, smacking his arm, ¡°you should have warned her we were alling. The poor thing looks ready to bolt.¡±

    She¡¯s not wrong. I¡¯m calcting the distance to the fire escape.

    If Oleg is going to y this dirty, I don¡¯t stand a chance.

    Then the little girl giggles, and something in my chest twinges. Bringing in kids is unfair.

    But I¡¯m not giving in that easily.

    ¡°Hi there,¡± I say stiffly. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±

    She looks up at me with sheer surprise. She cartwheeled into the penthouse without even registering I was here like she¡¯s done it a dozen times before.

    She immediately ducks behind her father, using his leg as a shield. She peeks out at me with big, wide eyes, mumbling something unintelligible.

    Artem steps out of the elevator, dragging his tiny human shield with him. ¡°Come on, kiddo. Use your words.¡±

    ¡°Dad!¡± she scolds in a perfect imitation of her mother¡¯s tone. Then she peeks at me again. ¡°I¡¯m Lily.¡±

    I try to maintain my annoyance, but it¡¯s slipping through my fingers like sand. ¡°That¡¯s a pretty name.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s yours?¡± she asks.

    The toddler has stopped his escape attempts to stare at me with giant eyes.

    Great. Now, I have an audience.

    ¡°Sutton.¡±

    ¡°Sut-ton?¡± Lily tests the sybles like she¡¯s tasting something strange.

    ¡°That¡¯s a silly name,¡± the little boy deres with a giggle.

    ¡°Noah!¡± his mother gasps. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry; he¡¯s still learning about filters.¡±

    ¡°At least he¡¯s honest,¡± I say, and immediately want to bite my tongue.

    I¡¯m supposed to be resistant to their charm offensive. But there¡¯s something disarming about brutal toddler honesty.

    ¡°It¡¯s nice to meet you, Noah.¡±

    Despite my annoyance thirty seconds ago, I actually mean it.

    The boy gives me a bright smile and a floppy wave.

    ¡°Well,¡± I say, e on in. Make yourselves at home, I think?¡±

    ¡°You two go y,¡± Artem says. ¡°Let your mom and I introduce ourselves.¡±

    The two kids tear into the penthouse, scattering in two different directions like loose marbles.

    I scan the living room and dining room for anything breakable. Oleg¡¯s monk-like sense of decor means there are very few items at risk. In his house of pretentiously angr furniture, the children are the most fragile things around.

    Artem¡¯s eyes twinkle like he knows exactly what I¡¯m thinking. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. They¡¯re surprisingly good at surviving.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not as reassuring as you think it is.¡±

    Heughs and holds out a hand to me. ¡°Artem Savin. This is my wife, Faye.¡±

    I can¡¯t help but shake my head andugh. ¡°I gotta give it to you, showing up here with two cute kids and your pregnant wife? Well yed, sir.¡±

    ¡°Am I missing something?¡± Artem asks, scratching the back of his head.

    ¡°Frequently, darling.¡± Fayeughs, running her hands over her belly. ¡°Clearly, she¡¯s annoyed she has to have dinner with you.¡±

    Artem gasps in faux offense. ¡°¡®Has to¡¯? You get to have dinner with me.¡±

    ¡°No, she was forced into it. Your best friend doesn¡¯t exactly ask permission.¡± She turns to me. ¡°Has Oleg seeded in pissing you off already?¡±

    My lips twitch. ¡°Maybe.¡±

    ¡°Typical.¡±

    ¡°Faye,¡± Artem hisses, ¡°we¡¯re here to make nice, not?¡ª¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m here for dinner. And pleasant, adult conversation,¡± she interrupts. ¡°Whatever ulterior motives you have, leave me out of them.¡±

    Faye gives me a conspiratorial wink before she kicks off her shoes and waddles into the living room.

    ¡°Where did the kids go?¡±

    I hearughter, but I don¡¯t see them.

    Faye lowers herself onto the sofa with the grace of the very pregnant¡ªthat is to say, none at all. ¡°Don¡¯t fret, Sutton; they won¡¯t break anything important.¡±

    ¡°Everything in here looks important,¡± I mutter.

    She props her feet on the coffee table. ¡°Trust me, if Oleg cared about keeping things pristine, he wouldn¡¯t have given the kids their own room.¡±

    I blink. ¡°Their own what?¡±

    ¡°You haven¡¯t seen it?¡± She exchanges a knowing look with Artem. ¡°Oh, honey, you need to work on your snooping skills.¡±

    ¡°Please ignore my wife,¡± Artem groans. ¡°The pregnancy makes her¡­ direct.¡±

    ¡°The pregnancy makes me honest,¡± Faye corrects. ¡°Come on, I¡¯ll show you.¡± She tries and fails to pry herself off the sofa. Then she wags a hand in Artem¡¯s direction. ¡°You did this to me. The least you can do is help me up.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re the one who wanted a third.¡± He presses a kiss to her cheek when she stands.

    ¡°Only because I didn¡¯t think I¡¯d give birth to a boulder. This kid is going to be a ten-pounder, I can feel it.¡±

    Something like dread hisses in my stomach. Babies can get that big?!

    ¡°That¡¯s what you said about Noah, and he was only eight.¡±

    ¡°Only eight?¡± she shrieks. ¡°Says the man who didn¡¯t have to push him out of his?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Sorry, baby,¡± he cuts her off. ¡°You¡¯re just so gorgeous when you¡¯re pregnant that I couldn¡¯t help myself.¡±

    Faye rolls her eyes, but she can¡¯t quite stop herself from smiling as she turns to me. ¡°Men are all full of shit. Am I right, Sutton?¡±

    ¡°In my experience? Absolutely.¡±

    She ps her hands and then heads for the kitchen. I follow reluctantly, not sure I want to discover what other secrets this ce is hiding.

    She slides open what I thought was a pantry door, revealing a burst of color that feels like stepping into an alternate dimension.

    The room is chaos.

    Toys everywhere. Art supplies. A miniature basketball hoop. Building blocks scattered across the floor likendmines. It¡¯s everything the rest of the apartment isn¡¯t.

    ¡°Why¡­¡± I start, then stop. Try again. ¡°Why does Oleg have this?¡±

    ¡°For the rugrats,¡± Faye says, like it¡¯s obvious. ¡°They needed somewhere to be kids when they visit Uncle Oleg.¡±

    Noah perks up. ¡°Unca Oleg is here?¡±

    Holy shit, the Beast has a soft spot.

    I suspected when he was sweet to Chloe at the daycare, but that was when he was in business mode.

    For all I knew, he could¡¯ve been sweet to kids at work and then purposefully ran over their bikes and tipped over lemonade stands in his free time.

    ¡°Not yet, baby,¡± Faye tells him. ¡°Soon.¡±

    Noah and Lily are visibly disappointed.

    ¡°Not soon enough,¡± Artem announces. ¡°I¡¯m starved. Anyone else hungry?¡±

    Both kids shoot up like prairie dogs at the mention of food. My stomach chooses that moment to remind me that I haven¡¯t eaten since breakfast.

    ¡°Pizza?¡± Lily sing-songs, her hands sped together in a plea.

    I just met Lily, and I already want to give her and her gap-toothed smile everything she¡¯s ever dreamed of, but I think of greasy fingerprints on Oleg¡¯s pristine furniture and wince.

    ¡°Pizza is pretty messy.¡±

    ¡°Which is why we¡¯ll eat in the yroom,¡± Faye announces. She touches me gently on the shoulder. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Oleg is used to the kids. We¡¯re over all the time.¡±

    I¡¯ll be damned. Oleg¡¯s ivory tower had a rainbow-colored trap door I wasn¡¯t expecting.

    Maybe the Beast has a fun-loving personality tucked away under all that muscle, after all.<hr>

    ¡°More juice!¡± Noah demands, holding out his cup like a tiny emperor.

    His hands are covered in sauce, along with the cor of his shirt and the kid-sized table he and Lily are sitting at. Faye was a genius for having us all eat in here.

    ¡°Water,¡± Faye tells him.

    ¡°Juice! Now!¡±

    She arches a brow, and I watch the toddler crumple. ¡°Juice¡­ please?¡±

    ¡°Nice try, bud.¡± She ruffles his hair and hands him his water bottle. ¡°Water.¡±

    I feel like I should be taking notes. Faye really knows what she¡¯s doing when ites to this parenting thing.

    And ording to the contract I signed, I might¡¯ve signed myself up for kids¡ªmultiple.

    I can handle being their fun daycare provider for a few hours every day, but being the person there when they¡¯re sick or scared of the dark or screaming because you gave them the purple cup instead of the blue one?

    I could use some practice.

    Especially since I¡¯m not sure the Beast has much experience with?¡ª

    ¡°UNCA OLEG!¡±

    The shriek pierces the rtive calm we¡¯ve established. Both kidsunch themselves at the doorway, where Oleg looms like a dark cloud at a pic.

    But the second the kids are in his arms, he spins them in a circle, making them giggle.

    Then his gaze finds mine.

    And the warmth I just witnessed vanishes like it never existed.

    His eyes sweep over the chaos we¡¯ve created¡ªscattered toys, pizza stains, empty juice boxes¡ªand then back to me.

    His cold assessment has me feeling like an intruder, so I¡¯m grateful when Artem bursts in.

    ¡°Pizza?¡± He holds a floppy slice out to Oleg.

    ¡°Not for me.¡± Oleg tears his gaze from mine to focus on his friend. ¡°We need to talk. It¡¯s important.¡±

    He doesn¡¯t even look at me as he turns away. Artem follows, throwing apologetic nces over his shoulder.

    ¡°This will take a while,¡± Artem adds in a quiet voice to Faye. He presses a kiss to the top of his children¡¯s heads. ¡°Better get the kids home.¡±

    I stare at the door even after Oleg is gone, searching for any sign of the Unca Oleg the kids love so much, for any sign of the man who built this yroom.

    Faye heaves herself up and pats my shoulder. ¡°You¡¯ll get used to this.¡±

    Used to what?

    The whish between the man who spinsughing children and the one who can¡¯t even acknowledge my existence?

    How he maintains a joy-filled yroom but keeps his own emotions locked away?

    I should ask what she means.

    But I¡¯m afraid I already know.

    I watch them leave, taking their warmth and chaos with them, leaving me alone in a room full of evidence that Oleg Pavlov has a heart.

    I just don¡¯t know if he¡¯ll ever let me near it.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 18

    The marble conference table stretches between us like a funeral b, and my mother sits at the other end, a Chanel-d vulture waiting to pick apart whatever daresnd in front of her.

    Today, it¡¯s my future on the menu.

    I turn to Candace. The family publicist¡¯s fingers hover over her MacBook, ready to spin whatever I feed her into a digestible headline for the masses.

    ¡°We¡¯re here today to talk about my engagement.¡±

    Her dull green eyes light up at my words like she just won the PR lottery. Engagements, weddings, babies¡ªit¡¯s what publicists live for.

    Tap.

    Tap.

    Tap.

    My mother¡¯s blood-red nails drum against the marble, each click a little death knell for my patience. Her eyebrows¡ªpencil-thin thanks to her surgeon¡¯s artistic vision¡ªarch skyward.

    ¡°This is serious enough to be made public?¡±

    ¡°Candace wouldn¡¯t be here if it wasn¡¯t,¡± I drawl.

    Candace attacks her keyboard with an enthusiasm I wish was catching. But this is Oksana Pavlova I¡¯m dealing with.

    She adjusts her cream silk blouse, settles a cigarette between her lips, and strikes the lighter my father gave her on their twentieth anniversary.

    The me flickers to life and catches the cigarette.

    Smoking isn¡¯t allowed in Pavlov Industries, but the rules don¡¯t apply if your name is on the building.

    ¡°What kind of train wreck have you shackled yourself to, son?¡±

    Candace freezes. You¡¯d think she¡¯d be used to my mother¡¯s brand of brutal honesty by now.

    ¡°Is that all the confidence you have in my choice?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Call it a mother¡¯s instinct.¡± She takes a drag, blowing a cloud of smoke around her head. ¡°That and the fact that you didn¡¯t bring her to this meeting. You¡¯re afraid to show her to me. And apparently, you need to ¡®manage¡¯ the messaging before you roll this woman out to the public.¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s not thetest yacht up for offer, Maman. She¡¯s my future wife. The future mother of my children.¡±

    She rolls her eyes. ¡°And what else is she, Oleg? Who is this woman and what is wrong with her?¡±

    Plenty, I¡¯m sure. I just haven¡¯t known Sutton long enough to see beyond the surface.

    The sight of her in nothing but her underwear has fueled my sex drive for forty-eight straight hours, she can cook a mean bowl of pasta, and she¡¯s sweet to my niece and nephew despite me foisting them upon her without asking.

    But surely, under all of that, she¡¯s riddled with faults.

    I know of one issue, at least.

    ¡°Her name is Sutton Palmer. Until recently, she was an employee at Pavlov Industries Daycare.¡±

    The cigarette freezes halfway to my mother¡¯s lips. ¡°She works for you?¡±

    ¡°Worked,¡± I correct. ¡°Past tense. She doesn¡¯t anymore.¡±

    ¡°Do I dare ask why?¡±

    She stubs out her cigarette with enough force to crack the crystal ashtray, swiveling her chair to face me fully.

    ¡°She was involved in a¡­ situationst week. It¡¯s why she isn¡¯t at this meeting today. She¡¯s lying low.¡±

    Candace has no doubt typed Sutton¡¯s name into her search bar and is doing a good job of hiding her shock at what she¡¯s found.

    I know the first result that pops up. I¡¯m responsible for a third of the clicks on those photos.

    The same photos are inside the file I slide across the table to my mother.

    ¡°I¡¯ll be marrying Sutton as soon as a doctor verifies pregnancy, but our engagement will be announced as soon as possible. That¡¯s why Candace is here.¡±

    Candace sinks into her shoulders like a turtle. No one wants to be caught in the crossfire when Oksana is in the fight.

    My motherys her red talons on the folder, dragging it closer to her. She opens it slowly, eyes scanning the first page and then the second.

    She moves with ominously slow precision through the entire folder.

    Then she ms it shut.

    ¡°You¡¯ve lost your fucking mind.¡±

    ¡°Is that your blessing?¡± I sneer through a smile.

    ¡°Be serious, Oleg,¡± she barks. ¡°You need a powerful woman by your side. You want me to support your bid to take over thepany and the Bratva? Then find a suitable wife.¡±

    ¡°I already have.¡±

    Her nostrils re wide. ¡°The woman you¡¯re seen with matters, Oleg. Her reputation matters. She will be the wife of the pakhan and the mother of the future pakhan.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m aware.¡± The words fall from my lips like ice. ¡°Appearances are everything¡ªwhich is, again, why Candace is here.¡±

    Our publicist peeks over her screen like a prairie dog checking for predators. A decade of handling Pavlov drama, and she still hasn¡¯t developed immunity to the toxic waste dump that is my rtionship with my mother.

    ¡°What¡¯s real and true doesn¡¯t matter,¡± I say matter-of-factly. ¡°We manufacture the truth. We create the reality we want. Candace will do that for Sutton.¡±

    My mother opens her mouth, but I silence her with a raised hand. ¡°Sutton has baggage, but that can be spun to my advantage.¡±

    Intrigue flickers across my mother¡¯s stony face. ¡°Exin.¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s desperate and broke¡ªshe¡¯ll toe whatever line I ask her to and that¡¯s a hell of a lot more than you can say about any of the candidates you threw my way.¡±

    With my mother, I¡¯ve always been a salesman. She needs to be convinced, and like Candace, I¡¯m good at twisting the truth to my benefit.

    But doing it for Sutton feels different.

    Wrong.

    ¡°Those ¡®candidates¡¯ had something to offer besides their bodies. They came from influential families who?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Who had their own motives and agendas. I know Sutton¡¯s motives. I can control her.¡±

    Images of Sutton sh through my mind. One in particr: her with her delicate wrists cuffed to my body,ing apart on my fingers as she gazed up at me like there was nothing she wouldn¡¯t let me do to her.

    That is control.

    That is surrender.

    I shove it aside as fast as I can.

    ¡°At least the women I selected were educated, refined. You could be proud to have them on your arm. Instead, you¡¯re going to have a stupid, useless bimbo raising your children.¡±

    My jaw clenches hard enough to crack.

    She¡¯s never seen Sutton with children. My mother doesn¡¯t know how Sutton fights back even when she¡¯s cornered.

    She can handle my world and my children; I have no doubt.

    But I don¡¯t owe my mother an exnation.

    ¡°A contract has already been drawn up. She¡¯s already signed it. I don¡¯t waste time onwyers or¡ªno offense, Candace¡ªpublicity agents, unless I¡¯m serious about something. The decision has already been made, Maman. Time to get on board.¡±

    She could pull her support for my security system.

    She could back Uncle Boris and make my fight to the top harder than it needs to be¡ªbut cold as my mother is, she admires strength.

    ¡°It seems I have no choice.¡± She flips open the folder, sying Sutton¡¯s boudoir photoshoot across the marble table. ¡°Is this really what we¡¯re working with, Candace? What can be done about these?¡±

    All nervousness gone now that she¡¯s in business mode, Candace studies the pictures with the detached eye of someone who¡¯s seen everything the inte has to offer. ¡°My first impression is that she¡¯s beautiful. And obviously photogenic.¡±

    ¡°So is every adolescent out there with a good camera and an airbrushing app on their phone,¡± Oksana mutters.

    ¡°True, but not all of them be overnight inte sensations based on a few sexy pictures. The fact that she was able to pull it off is telling. People are going to be interested in her. I can work with this.¡±

    I resist the urge to be smug and gloat in my mother¡¯s sour face, if only because she knows how to lose gracefully when she has to.

    ¡°Very well, then.¡± She flicks the folder closed. ¡°Have a few mock-up engagement announcements sent to me by the afternoon.¡±

    ¡°Once they¡¯ve passed your initial inspection, send them to me, Maman. I¡¯ll make the final decision.¡± I push away from the table and stand. ¡°I¡¯ll leave youdies to your task.¡±

    My mother¡¯s eyes¡ªthe same shade as mine¡ªfixate on me. ¡°Don¡¯t forget about your task, son. Otherwise, all this will be for nothing.¡±

    I wouldn¡¯t exactly call the sight of Sutton in tiny red panties ¡®nothing,¡¯ but I nod anyway, the memory of those photos burning behind my eyes.

    ¡°I know what I¡¯m supposed to do.¡±

    The problem is doing it.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 19

    ¡°For the record, I approve,¡± Artem says, hovering over me with that knowing smirk.

    I grunt as I press another set, the three-hundred-pound barbell straining my chest.

    Sweat drips down my temples. But the burn in my muscles isn¡¯t enough to silence the thoughts of her that keep invading my mind.

    It¡¯s why I had to get out of that meeting with my mother and Candace.

    Why I texted Artem to meet me at the gym.

    I thought I could burn away Sutton and the way she looked in my bed, clenching around my fingers. Get her out of my head.

    No such luck.

    Not with Artem around, at least.

    ¡°So Faye approves. That¡¯s what you¡¯re really saying.¡±

    ¡°I have my own opinions, man,¡± says Artem. ¡°She doesn¡¯t make up my mind.¡±

    ¡°Right. Kind of like when you swore up and down you only wanted two kids. ¡®It¡¯s man-on-man defense right now, O. That¡¯s the dream. One more and we¡¯re ying zone¡ªno thanks.¡¯ And a monthter, Faye was pregnant with your third.¡±

    Artem waits a second longer than he should to grab the bar when my body starts to give out. ¡°We¡¯re not talking about me and mydy, asshole. We¡¯re talking about you and yours.¡±

    I sit up, elbows on knees, trying to steady my breathing. My heart¡¯s pounding too hard for just a standard bench press.

    Been that way since she moved in.

    Since I watched her explore my apartment on the security feeds, touching everything with those delicate fingers, learning my space.

    Sutton is mine now. Technically.

    ¡°Stop acting like this rtionship is legitimate.¡± I shove to my feet, heading for the heavier weights. ¡°She¡¯s an employee. That¡¯s it.¡±

    ¡°You let all your employees take yourst name and bear your children?¡± Artem¡¯s eyebrow is raised, watching me in the wall-to-wall mirrors in the gym. ¡°Come on, bro. Even you aren¡¯t in denial that deep.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡± I grab a pair of dumbbells, knuckles white.

    ¡°It means she¡¯s pretty and sweet and exactly your type.¡± I don¡¯t like the shit-eating grin spreading across his face. ¡°Is it a coincidence she looks so good with her clothes off or?¡ª?¡±

    ¡°I have to fuck her,¡± I say tly, interrupting before I bash his head in with the weights. ¡°I¡¯m not going to make that worse by picking someone unattractive. Plus, I want my children to have a good gene pool. This is all logistics. It doesn¡¯t mean I want anything else from her.¡±

    It¡¯s the same argument I¡¯ve been having with myself since the night Sutton came to my room.

    It was all practical¡ªthe sooner we start trying to have a baby, the sooner we can get to the business portion of the arrangement.

    Then I reached for a fucking condom.

    Making an heir was thest thing on my mind. Right then, I didn¡¯t care about the Bratva or thepany¡­

    I wanted Sutton.

    Which is why I had to leave.

    It¡¯s why I¡¯m here, still trying to clear my head forty-eight hourster.

    My arms shake slightly as I press up. Too much weight?

    Or just the weight of remembering how she looked in my bed, all that soft skin and trust I don¡¯t deserve?

    Artem moves behind me to spot,ughing softly. ¡°You always dide at things sideways. You¡¯ll realize I¡¯m right when you have a baby. You think you can keep things professional then?¡±

    ¡°Let me guess: you want me to throw out the contract and y happy family like you?¡±

    ¡°Would it be the worst thing?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡± The lone wordes out like venom. My shoulders heave as I stand, shoving past him. ¡°I¡¯m no family man, Artem. Never will be.¡±

    It¡¯s why I chose this path. This cold, controlled arrangement is supposed to be simple, clean. It was supposed to be safe.

    But nothing about Sutton Palmer feels safe right now.

    ¡°Stubborn ass,¡± Artem mutters, trailing me to the squat rack. ¡°The least you can do is be decent to her.¡±

    This time, I bark out augh. It¡¯s amazing. Artem has met her once, and he¡¯s already on Team Sutton.

    ¡°What makes you think I¡¯m not?¡±

    ¡°She looked ready to bolt when we showed upst night. If I hadn¡¯t brought the whole family, pretty sure she¡¯d have told me to fuck right off.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s everyone¡¯s first instinct with you.¡± I drop into a squat, thighs burning.

    ¡°Dangerous game, being an asshole to the man in charge of whether you get squished to death or not.¡±

    I snort. ¡°I can handle myself without a spotter.¡±

    In the mirror, Artem rolls his eyes. ¡°All I¡¯m saying is that this is a hugemitment. Why not make it easier on yourself?¡±

    Another rep. Sweat stings my eyes. ¡°Meaning?¡±

    ¡°Be her friend.¡±

    I drop the weight into the rack with augh thates out more like a snarl. ¡°Her friend?¡±

    It tastes wrong on my tongue.

    A friend doesn¡¯t think about bending someone over every avable surface.

    A friend wouldn¡¯t have felt the crush of her orgasm on his fingers.

    A friend wouldn¡¯t know the sound she made as she came or imagine all the other sounds they could draw out of her with a little time and the toys in my closet.

    ¡°Sutton and I can¡¯t be friends,¡± I say, only a little hoarse.

    ¡°Start simple.¡± Artem shrugs, unfazed by my reaction. ¡°Have dinner with her. Maybe ask her about the engagement announcement. She¡¯s getting engaged, too. I bet she has some thoughts.¡±

    I grab my towel, wiping sweat that¡¯s not entirely from exertion. ¡°Her opinion doesn¡¯t matter. She signed a contract.¡±

    ¡°If that¡¯s the philosophy you¡¯re gonna take into parenting, God help you both.¡±

    ¡°Gym time should be silent time,¡± I grit out.

    But my thoughts aren¡¯t silent. My head is a fucking riot of her.

    One day in my house and Sutton has chipped away at walls I¡¯ve spent neen years building.

    So I need to do some reinforcing¡ªbuild them up stronger.

    Artem¡¯s eyes re when I increase the weight again, but he doesn¡¯t argue.

    Maybe he can see that I need the weight.

    The pain.

    Anything to stay focused on the task at hand.<hr>

    I retreat to my officeter, but even here, I can¡¯t escape her. I itch to grab my phone andb through the security footage of Sutton in my house.

    Just as I¡¯m about to give in, Candace messages me about engagement announcementyouts.

    I scan them without really seeing, mind stuck on Artem¡¯s words.

    Should I send them to Sutton? Let her have input on how we tell the world our carefully crafted lie?

    That would be the ¡°friendly¡± thing to do.

    I¡¯m staring at the screen, debating, when her name shes on my screen.

    SUTTON: Hey, I was thinking of making a little risotto tonight. Care to join me?

    I do care. More than I should.

    Something twists in my gut¡ªsharp, visceral. A feeling I haven¡¯t let myself experience in neen years.

    My chest constricts, lungs fighting for air that suddenly tastes like smoke and saltwater.

    I close my eyes, but that¡¯s worse. They¡¯re there instantly¡ªOriana¡¯sugh, Elise¡¯s smile, both gone to ash because I dared to dream of happiness.

    Because I was weak enough to love them.

    My fingers hover over the keyboard. Sutton¡¯s message blinks up at me.

    So innocent.

    So dangerous.

    I chose this arrangement to avoid exactly this¡ªthis suffocating pull, this temptation to want more. To be more.

    I message Candace first.

    OLEG: The second announcement works. Have it ready for print by tomorrow.

    Then I force myself to type:

    OLEG: I¡¯m busy tonight.

    I send it to Sutton, then set my phone aside and focus on work.

    Numbers. Logistics. Things that can¡¯t hurt because I never let them in.

    Things that can¡¯t die in my arms because I was foolish enough to care.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 20

    As I roll out of bed, my brain sloshing against my skull in the opposite direction, I might regret the bottle of winest night.

    I¡¯d pulled it out to pair with the risotto for dinner. I thought a little social lubricant might get things back on track with Oleg.

    Then he bailed¡ªagain.

    And I drank alone¡ªagain.

    I throw on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt since there¡¯s no one around to seduce.

    Not that my nothing-but-panties routine worked the first time. Oleg fled the room like it was on fire while I was naked on his bed, and I¡¯ve hardly seen him since.

    In terms of signs that he¡¯s just not that into you, that¡¯s a big shing billboard.

    It¡¯s crossed my mind more than once¡ªwhile I wander the halls of his penthouse like a lost puppy¡ªthat our deal might be over.

    Maybe he changed his mind. This whole contract came about suddenly, and maybe he¡¯s having second thoughts.

    I imagine Uri arriving to collect me and my things, ready to deliver me to¡­ well, nowhere.

    I have nowhere else.

    Nothing else.

    Oleg Pavlov, irritating enigma that he is, is my only n.

    I have to make this work.

    I¡¯m in the kitchen eating breakfast when my phone buzzes. It¡¯s a text from Sydney¡ªan article.

    The headline smacks me in the face like an open palm: ¡°Billionaire Yachtmaker Sets A New Course with Naughty Employee.¡±

    I stare at my phone screen, my breakfast forgotten and growing soggy in its bowl.

    The deepfaked photo looks so real it makes my stomach turn.

    There we are¡ªOleg and me¡ªlooking like we just stepped out of some glossy magazine spread. He¡¯s in a tailored suit, and I¡¯m in a silky dress that clings perfectly to every¡­ well, not my curves.

    The body pressed against Oleg is tight and trim in all the ces I¡¯m not, and somehow, that painnces through the shock of seeing a ring on my finger big enough to double as the anchor for the yacht we¡¯re on.

    Apparently, Oleg and I are engaged.

    First I¡¯m hearing about it.

    My sister¡¯s face fills my screen, her FaceTime call catching me with my mouth hanging open.

    ¡°You sneaky bitch!¡± she squeals. ¡°When were you nning to tell me?¡±

    ¡°I¡­¡±

    Words fail me. What am I supposed to say?

    That this is all fake?

    That the man in the photo hasn¡¯t touched me in three days?

    That I¡¯m living in his luxury condo like some kind of kept woman, except without the ¡°keeping¡± part?

    The fact is, I wasn¡¯t nning to tell Sydney anything. Not until I had the money secured to get her out of Vegas or Dubai or wherever the fuck she is and away from Paul.

    Looks like I don¡¯t get a choice in that now.

    ¡°Oh my God, look at you, ying innocent.¡± Sydney¡¯s perfectly made-up face beams at me through the screen. The bruises from her sugar daddy are almostpletely covered today. ¡°Seriously, though¡ªOleg fucking Pavlov? You hit the motherlode, sis. Is his dick as big as his bank ount?¡±

    Hell if I know! The reality that I¡¯m engaged to Oleg and I haven¡¯t seen more than the outline of his dick through his pants is the final nail in the coffin.

    My stomach churns. ¡°Sydney, I can¡¯t talk right?¡ª¡±

    ¡°No way! You haven¡¯t told me anything yet. How did he propose? When¡¯s the wedding? Does this mean you¡¯ll stop lecturing me about Paul?¡±

    I end the call mid-sentence, mainly because I don¡¯t want to exin to Sydney the many ways that Oleg is not my sugar daddy.

    This is a business arrangement. We signed a contract.

    A contract he might as well have spit on when he had that article published without so much as a warning.

    The silence in the condo feels oppressive now, pressing down on me from all sides.

    Three nights. Three fucking nights he¡¯s been ghosting me, and now, this?

    I text Uri to bring the car around, then storm into my bedroom. Most of my clothes look like they belong to a Catholic school dropout, but there¡¯s one dress that¡¯ll work for what I have in mind¡ªa rose pink linen number Mara forced me to buy months ago.

    No man is going to pay attention if you dress like a teenage boy, she¡¯d said.

    Well, I need Oleg¡¯s attention now.

    The dress hugs my curves in a way that walks the line between ssy and sinful. I add some wedge tforms and just enough makeup to emphasize my eyes and lips.

    My reflection stares back at me, transformed from heartbroken hermit to someone who could maybe pass for a billionaire¡¯s fianc¨¦e.

    Hopefully.

    Uri is waiting with the silver Maybach when I get downstairs. His eyebrows shoot up when he sees me.

    ¡°Where to, Ms. Sutton?¡±

    ¡°Pavlov Industries.¡± I slide into the backseat, my dress riding up just enough to make me feel dangerous. ¡°And don¡¯t warn him we¡¯reing.¡±

    I didn¡¯t get any warning, so why should he?

    ¡°There¡¯s a camera in the backseat, ma¡¯am.¡± Uri clears his throat, sounding guilty. ¡°Just so you¡¯re aware. The footage streams to Mr. Pavlov¡¯s phone.¡±

    Oh, that¡¯s right¡ªbecause he¡¯s a billionaire and the whole world, myself included, is under his thumb. How could I forget?

    I locate the tiny lens and give it my middle finger. ¡°How¡¯s that for a preview?¡±

    Uri¡¯sugh turns into a cough as he pulls away from the curb.

    The drive feels endless, each mile cranking my anger higher. By the time we reach the Pavlov Industries skyscraper, I¡¯m ready tomit murder.

    Prison sounds preferable to this arrangement with Oleg.

    I¡¯ve walked the halls of Pavlov Industries before, but today is different. Whispers and stares follow everywhere I go.

    Everyone knows who I am now. The naughty employee who seduced the big, bad boss.

    I hold my head high, channeling my inner Sydney. She¡¯d strut through here like she owned the ce.

    The executive floor is a shrine to masculine power, all dark wood and leather. Oleg¡¯s assistants swarm me like well-dressed mosquitoes.

    ¡°Ms. Sutton, would you like some water?¡±

    ¡°Can I get you some coffee?¡±

    ¡°Mr. Pavlov is on a very important call?¡ª¡±

    I sweep past them like they¡¯re invisible. The towering double doors to his office don¡¯t intimidate me. Not today.

    He¡¯s sitting by the window in a leather wingback chair. Our eyes meet in the reflection and something hot and electric crackles between us.

    He says something in rapid French¡ªwhich would normally make my knees weak¡ªthen removes his earpiece and ends his call.

    ¡°Sutton.¡± His gaze travels down my body like he¡¯s undressing me with his eyes. Like he has the right after the way he had me bared before him and still walked away.

    ¡°Why the hell didn¡¯t you tell me about the engagement announcement?¡± I demand. ¡°My phone is exploding. My friends and family want answers.¡±

    He leans back,pletely unfazed. ¡°What you tell them is entirely up to you. As long as you stay within the terms of our contract.¡±

    ¡°Trantion: tell them anything except the truth!¡±

    The truth being that this is all fake.

    That I¡¯m just a womb with a view.

    That he hasn¡¯t touched me in three days despite our agreement.

    ¡°Why don¡¯t you sit down?¡± He gestures to a chair like I¡¯m here for a job interview.

    I resist the urge to flip him off again. ¡°I¡¯m fine right here.¡±

    He rises slowly, as calm as I am outraged. ¡°There¡¯s no need to be upset. The response is exactly what we want. Any publicity is good publicity. And you look lovely in the picture.¡±

    ¡°That picture isn¡¯t even real! It¡¯s not me. I mean, if you can just Photoshop any skinny bitch onto a yacht with you, why the hell am I here? What¡¯s my role?¡±

    His jaw twitches. ¡°Your role is outlined in our contract. Might I suggest another readthrough?¡±

    I step closer, tilting my chin up. Even in my highest heels, he towers over me. ¡°Yeah? Well, your role is outlined in that contract, too. And it¡¯s going to be pretty hard for me to fulfill my part if you don¡¯t fulfill yours.¡±

    Heat rises to his face. His expression hardens to stone.

    I turn on my heel and stride out, satisfaction burning through my veins.

    Let him chew on that for a while.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 21

    My uncle¡¯s summons arrives an hour after Sutton leaves.

    BORIS: Come see me immediately. We need to discuss your¡­ engagement.

    Boris is master of the passive-aggressive text. The ellipsis speaks volumes about the direction this conversation will go.

    Which is exactly why he can wait.

    I have a lot of work to catch up on. Thest hour was lost to thoughts of Sutton. I was in fucking shambles after she stormed into my office, her dress hugging every line and swell of her body. She was all curves and attitude and a bristling fuck-you energy that made my blood sing.

    Her perfume still lingers, taunting me.

    ¡°Boss?¡±

    Vol stands in my doorway looking like he¡¯s about to piss himself.

    Not an unusual state for him when he enters my office.

    ¡°I have an update on the two intruders from the marina.¡±

    I sigh. It feels like years since I knocked out the two men who trespassed near my yacht. So much has changed since then.

    ¡°And?¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re not Martinek men.¡±

    I arch an eyebrow, which is a sign for him to continue.

    ¡°We did a deep dive¡ªcredit searches, bank ounts,munications¡ªand someone bought them. It¡¯s a ghost organization. Completely under the radar.¡±

    ¡°So you came here to tell me you have nothing.¡±

    He nods miserably. ¡°But we¡¯re working on?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Work harder,¡± I growl. ¡°Get out.¡±

    Vol trips over his own feet trying to retreat. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone with Boris¡¯s message shing at the top of my notifications and the persistent memory of silk-wrapped curves I¡¯d like to map with my hands.

    And my lips.

    And my?¡ª

    ¡°Fuck,¡± I spit, opening myptop.

    If I walk out of this office now, I¡¯ll go to my penthouse.

    I¡¯ll find Sutton.

    I¡¯ll cross all the lines I¡¯ve set for myself.

    So I bury myself in work until I can think straight.

    I let Uncle Boris stew until sunset. By then, his texts have evolved from passive-aggressive to outright hostile.

    Good. An angry Boris is a careless Boris.

    I leave the office and head to his waterfront mansion. Instead of taking my car to the front entrance, I sail my sloop right into his private marina.

    I pass the collection of overpriced toys he calls a fleet. Toys bought and paid for with my father¡¯s money.

    Money that should¡¯ve been mine.

    One day soon, it¡¯ll all be mine again.

    As I disembark and walk down the dock, something catches my eye on the side of his favorite catamaran: the symbol of my new security system emzoned in the shiny paint. The exact one he voted against atst week¡¯s board meeting.

    Well, well. Isn¡¯t that interesting?

    I creep closer for a better look when shlight beams blind me from three directions.

    ¡°Don¡¯t move,¡± a voice barks. ¡°You¡¯re trespassing on private property.¡±

    I turn slowly, letting the light catch my scars. ¡°Actually, I was invited.¡±

    ¡°Mr. Oleg!¡± The head of security lowers his gun so fast he nearly drops it. ¡°I didn¡¯t realize?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Obviously. Or you¡¯d have brought better firepower.¡± I eye his pathetic little 9mm. ¡°Tell my uncle I¡¯m here.¡±

    ¡°No need for that.¡± Boris¡¯s voice slices through the darkness. ¡°You always did know how to make an entrance, Oleg.¡±

    His hands are in his pockets, and I notice he hasn¡¯t moved to dismiss his men. Their weapons are lowered, but they are still surrounding me at the ready.

    ¡°I was just admiring your new security features.¡± I nod at the catamaran. ¡°I¡¯m surprised, considering your stance at the board meeting.¡±

    He lifts a cigar, the end smoldering orange in the darkness. His hand shakes slightly, but he hides it well. ¡°One can¡¯t be too careful.¡±

    ¡°Indeed.¡± I step past his men like they¡¯re no more than garden statues. ¡°But it is curious that your private marina has better protection than Pavlov Industries and my marinabined. Your priorities seem¡­ misaligned.¡±

    His smile doesn¡¯t reach his eyes. ¡°I¡¯m a collector, nephew. Rare coins. Antiques. The kind of things that tempt even amateur thieves.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a poor pakhan who puts his own personal safety and interests above those of hispany and his Bratva.¡±

    Boris¡¯s face twitches. ¡°What would you know about being pakhan?¡±

    ¡°Everything my father taught me.¡±

    The air between us crackles. Old wounds and the grudges that predate them.

    Boris recovers first, ever the politician. ¡°Bogdan was a good brother and father. Come inside and join me for a drink. We¡¯ll toast to his memory. I just opened a bottle of whiskey.¡±

    He¡¯s not lying. I can smell the liquor on his breath.

    He leads me to his patio¡ªa stone b surrounded on all sides by statues of predators frozen mid-attack like they¡¯re about to lunge at us.

    Never one for subtlety, my uncle.

    He settles into a throne-like chair beneath a snarling lion and gestures to his bar cart. ¡°Help yourself.¡±

    I pour myself three fingers of whiskey and im a seat beneath an eagle with bared talons. The lights strung overhead cast deep shadows of my uncle¡¯s lined face.

    His eyes are empty sockets, dead and empty.

    I take a sip and raise my ss to him. ¡°Very nice.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m d you approve.¡± He fingers his own ss, his eyes fixed on me. ¡°You usually have such discerning taste. I thought in all matters, but¡­ after seeing your engagement announcement, I may have been wrong about that.¡±

    I expected this, but my fingers still tighten around my crystal tumbler. ¡°You do not approve?¡±

    ¡°Sutton.¡± He spits her name. ¡°Slutton would be more appropriate, wouldn¡¯t it? She¡¯s trash. I know it. You know it. The entire fuckingpany knows it.¡±

    ¡°Did you spend all daying up with that nickname?¡±

    ¡°Is her pussy that magical?¡± His lips curl, and I want to rip them from his face. ¡°Does she have an enchanted throat that fried your brain? That¡¯s the only exnation for?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t say another word.¡± I swear I feel the crystal flex in my palm, and I set it aside before I stab a shard into my uncle¡¯s carotid. ¡°She is young, beautiful, and will make an excellent mother. That¡¯s all you need to know.¡±

    ¡°What about breeding? ss? Education?¡± Boris sneers. ¡°I know a hundred women more suitable?¡ª¡±

    ¡°My choice is made. The announcement is public.¡± I lean forward, letting him look into my eyes and see the violence I¡¯m capable of. ¡°Sutton Palmer will be my wife. She¡¯ll be the mother of my children. If you ever disrespect her again, they¡¯ll be fishing pieces of you out of your precious marina for weeks.¡±

    ¡°You forget yourself, nephew. I¡¯m the pakhan.¡±

    The breeze carries the scent of salt water and makes my uncle shiver. That, or something else has him shaking in his throne.

    ¡°I¡¯m in charge,¡± he adds. ¡°You answer to me. Disobey my orders or lose control of your white trash woman and heads will roll.¡±

    ¡°But whose head?¡±

    ¡°W-what?¡± he splutters.

    ¡°Power isn¡¯t about titles, uncle. It¡¯s about loyalty. And every man in this organization knows which of us would bleed beside them in a fight.¡± I unfurl a slow smile, shing my canines as I stand. ¡°If you¡¯re smart, you¡¯ll wee my future wife with open arms. If you¡¯re not¡­ Well, like you said, one can¡¯t be too careful these days.¡±

    I leave him there, trembling beneath his stone lion.

    My phone is already in my hand as I walk away.

    OLEG: Meet me at the Pavlov Boatyard in half an hour, princess. It¡¯s time we talked.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 22

    My cheap stilettos click against the marble floor of the lobby as I stride toward the elevator, fighting the urge to tear off this ridiculous dress and shove it deep in the trash.

    What a waste of time and effort. An hour getting ready and amping myself up, all to have Oleg nce at me once before returning to his precious spreadsheets.

    It felt good in the moment¡ªyelling at him, standing my ground.

    Then I left his office¡­

    Got in the elevator¡­ got back in the car¡­ Let Uri drive me home¡­

    ¡­ and nothing.

    No texts.

    No calls.

    No frantic, rom-style run through the lobby of the building to catch me.

    Oleg doesn¡¯t care.

    Now, I have the proof.

    I made Uri take me somewhere for lunch because I couldn¡¯t stand the thought ofing home to the empty penthouse.

    But when the elevator doors slide open to the foyer, it isn¡¯t empty. Faye Savin is bouncing an increasingly agitated Noah on her hip while Lily pinches her nose closed dramatically.

    ¡°Oh, thank God,¡± Faye breathes. ¡°We came to see you, but Noah pooped on the way over and I forgot wipes. Oleg has some in the yroom.¡±

    I blink, processing for what¡¯s apparently a moment too long because Faye rushes past me with Noah.

    ¡°Thanks, girl.¡±

    Not that I had much choice.

    ¡°It stinks in the car,¡± Lily announces, still pinching her nose. ¡°Noah pooped everywhere. Having a little brother is gross.¡±

    I can¡¯t help butugh, my earlier humiliation temporarily forgotten as I scoop up Lily¡¯s free hand.

    ¡°Well then, I think we need some strawberry lemon popsicles to clear the air, don¡¯t we?¡±

    ¡°Yes, please!¡± Lily¡¯s eyes light up as she skips alongside me to the kitchen.

    Her small hand fits in the center of mine, forcing me to imagine another little girl¡ªone with my blonde hair and Oleg¡¯s golden eyes.

    I told myself I signed the contract for Sydney¡ªand I did.

    But maybe I want to be a mother, too. To have a child of my own.

    Or, more likely, I just don¡¯t want to be alone.

    By the time Faye emerges with a much cleaner Noah, Lily is settled on the balcony with a popsicle. Noah plucks one from the table and starts licking, oblivious to how frazzled his mother looks.

    ¡°Sorry again for busting in on you.¡± Faye drops into the chair next to me with a sigh. ¡°I mean, I was nning to bust in on you, anyway, but I didn¡¯t n for the emergency.¡±

    Iugh. ¡°When you gotta go, you gotta go. I get it.¡±

    She smiles and shakes her head as she looks towards the balcony railing. The sun glints off the water, a perfect Florida day that somehow makes my mood feel even darker in contrast.

    Faye snatches a popsicle off the table and turns back to me. Her eyes widen like she¡¯s seeing me for the first time. ¡°Whoa. You look dressed to kill. Hot date?¡±

    I snort. ¡°Hardly. Just made a fool of myself visiting your brother-inw at work.¡±

    Faye¡¯s perfectly groomed eyebrows shoot up. ¡°Do tell.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s nothing to tell.¡± Especially since I signed an NDA that Oleg definitely has the money and power to enforce. ¡°I went to visit him at work, but he was busy. Then I left.¡±

    The silence stretches until I look over and find Faye giving me a guilty smile. ¡°I know about the contract, Sutton. Oleg told Artem.¡±

    My face flushes, but I try to hide my shame behind an eyeroll. ¡°Apparently, the ¡®keep your mouth shut¡¯ use only applies to me.¡±

    ¡°Honey, when you marry into this family, you learn there are no secrets. Not really. There¡¯s just enough money to keep lips sealed.¡± She pats my hand. ¡°Want to talk about it?¡±

    I nce at the kids, but they¡¯re absorbed in their popsicles and toys.

    The weight of my loneliness, my confusion, my infuriating attraction for a man who seems to have lost interest¡ªit alles crashing down at once.

    But I don¡¯t even know where to begin.

    ¡°I already like you way better than Oleg.¡± Faye winks. ¡°If you¡¯re worried about me spilling your secrets, I won¡¯t.¡±

    That¡¯s all it takes to open the gates.

    I lean closer, voice low. ¡°He¡¯s the one who wanted this contract. He¡¯s the one who seemed so eager to get started on making heirs. And now¡­¡±

    ¡°Now what?¡±

    ¡°Now, I¡¯m wondering if he got a closer look at the merchandise and changed his mind.¡±

    The bitterness in my voice surprises even me.

    I¡¯ve spent my entire life knowing I¡¯m at least moderately attractive to men. The creeps my mom¡ªand, eventually, my sister¡ªdated made that clear enough more than once.

    They liked what they saw, whether I wanted them looking or not.

    But suddenly, I think I might care what Oleg Pavlov thinks of me.

    God, it¡¯s pathetic.

    ¡°You really see yourself as merchandise?¡± Faye¡¯s voice is sharp.

    I fling my hands at myself¡ªmy dress, my carefully styled hair. ¡°He contracted me with a purpose. I¡¯m the easily manipted package he wants to sell to the public. Except¡­ not really. I didn¡¯t even get to be in my own engagement photos. They Photoshopped my face on some skinnier woman¡¯s body.¡±

    ¡°It was probably a timing issue. He¡¯s busy and didn¡¯t want to do a photoshoot or something.¡±

    ¡°Or,¡± I bite out, ¡°I¡¯m nothing like the women he usually dates, and he¡¯s figuring that out. They¡¯re all polished and rich. I couldn¡¯t tell Balenciaga from a paper bag.¡±

    ¡°Sometimes, Balenciaga is a paper bag.¡± She tries a tight smile before she sighs. ¡°You really think he only chose you because he can manipte you?¡±

    ¡°Why else? He saw me in that ridiculous princess costume and probably thought I¡¯d jump at any chance to escape my sad little life.¡±

    The memory of our first meeting still makes me cringe.

    ¡°Princess costume?¡± Faye perks up, a mischievous glint in her eye. ¡°Now, this I have to hear.¡±

    ¡°Oh, God.¡± I bury my face in my hands. ¡°Can we pretend I didn¡¯t mention that?¡±

    ¡°Not a chance. Spill.¡±

    So I tell her about that mortifying day in the gym bathroom, about the stuck zipper and Oleg¡¯s smirk and his demand to see me in his office.

    By the time I finish, Faye is doubled overughing.

    ¡°Stop,¡± I groan. ¡°It¡¯s not funny.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s hrious,¡± she wheezes. ¡°And absolutely perfect.¡±

    ¡°More like a horror story,¡± I snap. ¡°This is my life and it¡¯s an absolute mess.¡±

    ¡°Oh, honey.¡± Faye wipes tears ofughter from her eyes. ¡°You really don¡¯t see it, do you?¡±

    ¡°See what?¡±

    ¡°The way Oleg looks at you when you¡¯re not watching. Trust me, disinterest is not the problem.¡±

    I roll my eyes. ¡°Right. That¡¯s why he spends all his time avoiding me.¡±

    ¡°Have you considered that maybe he¡¯s avoiding himself?¡± When I frown in confusion, Faye continues. ¡°Look, Oleg doesn¡¯t exactly have the best track record with letting people in. That¡¯s intentional.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°All that dark, brooding energy? The dangerous mystique? It¡¯s armor.¡± Faye nces at the kids to make sure they¡¯re still upied. ¡°It¡¯s how he protects himself.¡±

    ¡°From me?¡± I blurt.

    ¡°From feeling anything at all.¡± Her eyes soften at the corners, a sad smile ying on her lips. ¡°He¡¯s been through things¡­ experiences that made him build walls.¡±

    My heart thuds. ¡°What kind of things?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not my story to tell.¡± Faye¡¯s expression grows serious. ¡°But I will say this: The fact that he chose you, that he¡¯s letting you into his life at all? That means something.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, it means he needs an heir.¡±

    ¡°Girl, if all Oleg wanted was an heir, he could have his pick of socialites desperate tond a billionaire husband. Instead, he picked you.¡± She gives me a pointed look. ¡°Think about that.¡±

    I do think about it, watching Noah build his train tracks while Lily conducts an borate lesson for her stuffed animals.

    The sight makes my chest ache with longing.

    ¡°Maybe I¡¯m just convenient,¡± I suggest weakly. ¡°No family connections toplicate things. No fortune hunters in my background.¡±

    ¡°Or maybe he saw something in you that none of those polished, cultured socialites have.¡± Faye¡¯s voice turns gentle. ¡°Something real.¡±

    Faye¡¯s words are still echoing in my mind when my phone buzzes hourster. I expect it to be Oleg.

    Anotherte-night message telling me not to wait up. Another blow-off. Another night spent alone.

    I¡¯m partially right.

    It is Oleg.

    But I won¡¯t be spending another night alone.

    OLEG: Meet me at the Pavlov Boatyard in half an hour, princess. It¡¯s time we talked.

    Even after how we left things this morning, hope flutters in my chest.

    I don¡¯t even respond to the message.

    I just bolt for my room, already wondering what to wear.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 23

    The rumble of the yacht¡¯s engine vibrates beneath my feet as Oleg steers us farther from shore.

    He¡¯s been ying professor for the past hour, lecturing me about bilges and flybridges and other boat parts I couldn¡¯t care less about.

    But I nod along like a good student, pretending I don¡¯t notice how his biceps flex when he grips the wheel, or how his shoulders stretch the limits of his white henley.

    At this point, I¡¯m pretty sure he brought me out here to murder me.

    It would be the perfect crime¡ªdump my body in the Antic, let the sharks take care of the evidence. No one would ever know what happened to the daycare worker who identally sent nudes to the entirepany.

    He nces my way and I quickly avert my eyes, but not before catching the hint of a smirk ying at his lips.

    Busted.

    ¡°You seem rxed,¡± I blurt out, immediately wanting to smack myself.

    His golden-brown eyes lock onto mine and I babble on like an idiot. ¡°It¡¯s just, in your office this morning, you weren¡¯t¡ª The farther we get fromnd, the morefortable you seem.¡±

    His jaw tightens, but he doesn¡¯t address my observation. Instead, he asks, ¡°Want to steer?¡±

    ¡°The yacht?¡± I squeak, my voice embarrassingly high.

    It took me four tries to get my driver¡¯s license. I¡¯m not sure I should be behind the wheel of a superyacht.

    ¡°There¡¯s nothing to it.¡± He beckons me with two fingers. ¡°Come here.¡±

    His casualmand settles hot and heavy between my legs.

    It¡¯s like I have no choice but to obey as I step forward.

    Surprisingly gently, Oleg grabs my hand and spins me in front of the wheel, caging me between his hard body and the helm.

    His heat envelops me, making my skin prickle with awareness.

    ¡°Can¡¯t steer without touching the wheel, princess.¡± He whispers the teasing words against my neck, sending goosebumps down my spine.

    ¡°It was one time. I wore a princess costume one time,¡± I grumble.

    His low chuckle sends another zing of electricity to my core.

    God. Get it together, Sutton.

    This morning, I was flipping him off through his security camera and charging across town to chew him out.

    Now, all is forgotten because he¡¯s pressing his body up against me?

    He shifts me closer, his hand spanning across my hip, and?¡ª

    ¡­ Well, yeah, I guess all is forgotten. I can¡¯t seem to remember anything else, anyway.

    He stays behind me as I pretend to navigate, though I¡¯m sure he¡¯s actually controlling everything.

    The stars glitter above us, casting dazzling patterns across the bow.

    It¡¯s the first time I¡¯ve actually looked around.

    Coincidentally, it¡¯s the first time Oleg hasn¡¯t been in my eyeline.

    ¡°It¡¯s beautiful,¡± I whisper, mesmerized.

    Without warning, he reaches past me to pull some lever. ¡°Let¡¯s drift for a while.¡±

    My body tenses, and there¡¯s no hiding it. He must feel the way I stiffen at the brush of his arm against mine. The way I tilt my neck when his mouth gets close, basically begging for him to kiss the soft skin there.

    Any change my attraction to him has gone unnoticed is gone now.

    My pheromones might as well be a foghorn ring through the quiet night.

    ¡°What do you prefer?¡± he asks, moving toward the door that leads to the bow. ¡°Private cabin or open sky?¡±

    I swallow hard. ¡°For what?¡±

    His only answer is a tilted, knowing smile that makes my knees weak. ¡°Make your choice.¡±

    ¡°Um¡­ I want whatever you want.¡±

    That¡¯s a dangerous game, considering I have no idea what Oleg wants. After days of ignoring me, I¡¯m suddenly all he can seem to focus on.

    I don¡¯t know why I¡¯m here or what the n is.

    But when he extends his hand to me, I don¡¯t hesitate to take it.

    Some dark part of my brain warns me that this is how my mother and sister got themselves into trouble over and over again. But it¡¯s drowned out by the way his fingers easily engulf mine, by the rough feel of his palm against mine.

    He leads me to the bow where we have an unbroken view of the deep blue water. He tilts his face skyward.

    ¡°Listen to that.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t hear anything.¡±

    ¡°Exactly.¡±

    When he turns to me, his golden eyes burn like twin mes in the darkness. I couldn¡¯t look away if I tried.

    ¡°Let¡¯s take a little dip.¡±

    My brain takes a moment to process his words. I nce at the inky water below. ¡°Now?¡±

    ¡°Trust me, there¡¯s nothing like it.¡±

    The air is mild, but I¡¯m betting that water is arctic. ¡°It¡¯ll be cold.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry.¡± His voice drops an octave. ¡°I¡¯ll keep you warm.¡±

    That statement alone has me itching to shed my jeans and oversized sweater. I debated on keeping the silk dress on, but I didn¡¯t know what this meeting would be.

    I didn¡¯t want him thinking I wanted him or anything.

    That would simply be ridiculous.

    Before I can decide what to do, Oleg grabs the bottom of his shirt and pulls it over his head.

    Suddenly, I lose track of every thought I¡¯ve ever had.

    Each muscle in his body is perfectly defined, precisely carved as if from marble. He¡¯s a beautiful wall of muscle.

    When he shoves his pants down, I swallow a moan.

    Then he pulls off his ck boxer briefs, and all the breath in my lungs is gone.

    The Beast is a very fitting nickname.

    He stands tall and proud¡ªand absolutely naked¡ªin front of me.

    ¡°You act like you¡¯ve never seen a naked man before, Ms. Palmer.¡±

    Heat scalds my cheeks as I stammer like an idiot. ¡°I have. Many, actually.¡± Oh, God, why. ¡°Not ¡®many¡¯! Just a few. Er, a totally respectable amount. Two?¡±

    His deep chuckle makes me want to throw myself overboard. He takes a step toward me and I jump back like he¡¯s brandishing a weapon instead of his anatomy.

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, princess. He doesn¡¯t bite.¡±

    I pinch my bottom lip between my teeth, desperately trying to keep my eyes above his waist.

    And desperately failing.

    ¡°You sure? He looks ready to take a bite out of me.¡±

    His cock twitches as if in agreement, swelling to attention.

    Oleg doesn¡¯t seem even remotely embarrassed. He just stands there smirking at me like I¡¯m the one who¡¯s naked.

    ¡°Your turn.¡±

    The fact he¡¯s this hard while I¡¯m still fully clothed gives me a tiny spark of confidence. Which is the only reason I start taking my clothes off.

    The sweateres off first. Thank God I at least wore decent underwear. Myce bra is made for appreciating, because it doesn¡¯t do anything else.

    It doesn¡¯t even cover my nipples¡ªa quality Oleg seems to appreciate.

    When I nce up at him, the hungry look in his eyes obliterates any lingering insecurity.

    I may not be as polished as the women he usually dates, but right now, he wants me. That much is obvious.

    I peel off my socks and my jeans, pausing when I¡¯m in nothing but my tiny undergarments.

    ¡°Don¡¯t quit on me now,¡± Oleg growls.

    The rough, hungry sound of his voice is all the push I need. I feel his amber eyes on me as I unsp my bra and slide my panties down my legs, but I don¡¯t look at him.

    I can¡¯t.

    I¡¯llbust.

    Finally, I stand tall,pletely exposed, my heart mming so hard against my chest I¡¯m sure he can hear it.

    ¡°My God.¡± His reverent tone sends pride coursing through me. He closes the distance between us, his gaze tracing fire down my body. ¡°You are so damn beautiful.¡±

    The wind whips my hair across my face. Before I can push it back, his fingers are there, tucking the strands behind my ear.

    ¡°Hm.¡± His thumb grazes my cheek. ¡°You¡¯re shaking.¡±

    ¡°I used to be terrified of deep water,¡± I whisper, desperate to distract myself from his intensity. ¡°When I was little, before foster care, my mom took my sister and me to theke. She got drunk and passed out in the sand. My sister was ying with some other, older kids, so I decided to wade in by myself.¡± I swallow hard. ¡°Got caught in a current. Almost drowned. No one even noticed I was gone.¡±

    His hand stills against my face. When I meet his eyes, they¡¯re liquid with an emotion I can¡¯t read. ¡°How old were you?¡±

    I don¡¯t know why I¡¯m saying this. I never talk about my past.

    But right now,pletely naked in the moonlight with Oleg Pavlov, I think I feel safe.

    ¡°Four. That¡¯s actually why we ended up in foster care. Someone called CPS about my mom leaving us unsupervised at theke. They investigated and found out we were living in her car.¡±

    His thumb is still tracing patterns on my skin, making me shiver. ¡°I bet your sister felt guilty. Like she should¡¯ve protected you.¡±

    Something I don¡¯t understand shes in his eyes, and I think about what Faye said.

    Oleg has a past, too.

    I wonder if it¡¯s as dark as mine.

    ¡°She was only eight, but she still spent her whole life trying to make up for it. She wanted to protect me from everything. Even when¡­¡±

    I fall off, not wanting to bring up Drew or any of that mess right now.

    Naked vulnerability is one thing.

    Emotional vulnerability is another entirely.

    He seems to sense my hesitation. His other hand finds my waist, and the heat of his palm brands my skin.

    ¡°The ocean isn¡¯t ake.¡±

    ¡°No?¡±

    ¡°No.¡± His voice roughens. ¡°The ocean is wild. Untamable. But if you respect its power¡­¡± His fingers flex against my hip. ¡°It can give you exactly what you need.¡±

    I¡¯m not sure we¡¯re talking about swimming anymore.

    His eyes are intensely focused on mine, and for a moment, I think he¡¯s going to kiss me. My eyes flutter shut, my lips part, I lean in slightly¡­

    ¡°The trick is to jump.¡±

    My eyes snap open just in time to see himunch himself into the water. A few droplets spray back, icy against my heated skin.

    I rush to the railing and gawk down.

    He¡¯s treading water below, lookingpletely at ease as moonlight dances across the surface around him.

    ¡°Come on, princess.¡±

    His challenging smile dares me to take the plunge.

    Maybe it¡¯s the pre-kiss adrenaline still dumping in my veins.

    Maybe it¡¯s the way he¡¯s looking at me.

    Or maybe I¡¯m just tired of being afraid.

    ¡°Here goes nothing,¡± I whisper.

    Then I jump.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 24

    ¡°I can¡¯t believe you actually jumped in.¡± Oleg¡¯s voice carries across the water the moment I break the surface.

    I swipe the saltwater from my eyes, gasping from the cold. My limbs feel frozen as I tread in ce, trying to keep myself afloat while also hiding my naked body beneath the waves.

    ¡°You dared me to. I never back down from a dare.¡±

    ¡°Is that so?¡± He prowls closer through the gentle current. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have told me that. I could dare you to do all kinds of dangerous things.¡±

    ¡°Skinny dipping with a scary Russian doesn¡¯t count as dangerous?¡±

    ¡°Not even close.¡±

    Taking a cold shower is supposed to clear your head, but mine is still foggy. The longer I look at Oleg¡ªwater streaming down his neck and shoulders, his powerful arms resting on the surface of the water like it takes no effort at all for him to float¡ªthe more I think he wouldn¡¯t have to dare me, after all.

    I¡¯d climb him just for the fun of it.

    ¡°I figured you¡¯d be more worried about what else was in this water.¡±

    I tear my eyes from him to nce around. ¡°What do you mean? What¡¯s in the water? Are there sharks?!¡±

    Hisugh is low and rough. ¡°Are you worried about sharks?¡±

    ¡°Everyone is worried about sharks, Oleg! Especially when they¡¯re swimming naked in the ocean. Some of us have seen Jaws twelve times.¡±

    ¡°You watch too many movies.¡± He circles me slowly, like a shark himself. ¡°The only predator you need to worry about out here is me.¡±

    His leg brushes mind underwater and goosebumps explode across my skin. ¡°Is that supposed to be reassuring? Because it¡¯s not.¡±

    ¡°No?¡± He moves closer, sending little ripples across the surface. ¡°Then why are you still here?¡±

    The question hangs between us, weighted with meaning.

    Why am I still here?

    With him, on this boat, in his life?

    He caught me at a low point, but I¡¯ve wed my way from the pits before, all without Oleg¡¯s help. I could do it again if I wanted to.

    Except maybe I don¡¯t want to.

    He¡¯s moving closer, his eyes flicking from mine to my lips again and again.

    ¡°Maybe I like a little danger,¡± I whisper.

    Suddenly, his strong arm snakes around my waist, pulling me flush against the hard wall of his chest. ¡°Be careful what you wish for, princess.¡±

    Then his mouthes down on mine, and everything else¡ªthe ocean, the stars, my own racing thoughts¡ªslip through my fingers like water through a sieve.

    The only thing I can hold onto is him.

    I¡¯ve never been kissed like this before. Like I¡¯m being consumed, devoured, imed.

    His tongue sweeps into my mouth, demanding and possessive. My hands grip his broad shoulders, fingers tangling in his wet hair as he deepens the kiss.

    Time bes fluid, meaningless. There¡¯s only sensation¡ªthe cool slide of water against our skin, the heat of his mouth, the solid length of his desire pressed between my legs.

    I roll myself against him and memorize the groan that ws out of his chest.

    When we finally break apart, I¡¯m breathless and trembling.

    ¡°Still worried about sharks?¡± he murmurs against my lips.

    Honestly, no.

    I¡¯m just afraid he¡¯ll never kiss me like this again.

    And even more afraid of that admission.

    So I curl my arm around his neck and pull him back to me until there¡¯s only Oleg, and the endless night sky above us, and the growing certainty that I¡¯m in way over my head.

    But for once in my life, I don¡¯t care about drowning.

    His hands slide down my back, cupping my ass and pulling me closer. The waterps gently between us, but I can feel how hard he is against my stomach.

    My nipples tighten into aching peaks, only partly from the cool water.

    ¡°We should get back to the boat,¡± he says.

    ¡°Why?¡± I wrap my legs around his waist, boldly grinding against him. ¡°Are you afraid of sharks?¡±

    ¡°No. I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m going to fuck you right here in the ocean.¡±

    Heat blooms between my legs. ¡°What if I dared you?¡±

    ¡°No.¡± His voice is firm. ¡°When I take you tonight, I want to see every inch of you. I want to watch youe apart under me. I can¡¯t do that in murky water.¡±

    He starts swimming back towards the yacht, pulling me along with powerful strokes.

    My skin tingles with anticipation.

    Thedder is cold against my feet as I climb up. Before I can reach the top, Oleg grabs me by the wrists and hauls me the rest of the way, plopping me on the teak deck between his dripping feet.

    His hands steady me, then slide possessively down my sides.

    I should feel exposed, vulnerable, standing naked on the deck while rivulets of cold water drip down my skin.

    Instead, I feel powerful.

    Desired.

    The way Oleg is looking at me makes me feel more beautiful than any boudoir shoot ever could.

    In one fluid motion, he has me pressed against the railing, his mouth hot on my neck.

    ¡°You¡¯re fucking perfect,¡± he mutters between kisses. ¡°You have no idea what you do to me.¡±

    I really don¡¯t. Because the memory of the man I saw sitting tall and proud behind his desk this morning feels like it¡¯s from another lifetime.

    I tip my head back as he kisses fire down my chest, staring up at the nket of stars above us.

    All of this ispletely surreal.

    I curl my fingers in Oleg¡¯s damp hair, pulling him closer, arching myself into him. ¡°Show me.¡±

    He growls¡ªactually growls¡ªand lifts me like I weigh nothing, carrying me to the cushioned seats in the bow. The night air is cool on my wet skin, but his body is zing hot as he covers me.

    He kisses my throat and my corbone. When his lips close around my nipple, I cry out, arching off the cushions.

    He scrapes his teeth against my sensitive skin, sending sparks of pleasure-pain through me.

    ¡°Oleg.¡± His name stutters on my lips. ¡°Please.¡±

    He raises his head, gold eyes burning into mine. ¡°Tell me what you want, Sutton.¡±

    I don¡¯t know what I want. Or, really, I can¡¯t narrow it down.

    Because I want it all. Everything he can give me.

    I want to lose myself in himpletely.

    But that¡¯s dangerous. It¡¯s beyond the bounds of our contract, and I can¡¯t ask him for that.

    So I say the only safe thing I can.

    ¡°You. I want you.¡±

    His lips curve into a predatory smile. Then he spreads my thighs wider and settles his broad body between them like he belongs there.

    Like I was made for him.

    His cock presses against me, thick and hard and all him.

    I dig my nails into his shoulders, afraid he¡¯s going to run away again. ¡°Oleg¡­¡±

    He studies my face, jaw clenched with determination. I can¡¯t read his expression, can¡¯t begin to guess what he¡¯s thinking.

    Maybe it¡¯s better that way. This thing between us isplicated enough without trying to decipher the emotions swimming in those eyes.

    A shiver runs through me¡ªanticipation, not fear. I cling to him tighter, feeling the simmering strength in his muscles. The long stroke of his bare skin against me.

    It hits me suddenly that this feels like my first time all over again. It¡¯s the first time anyone has ever been inside of me skin-to-skin.

    But instead of dreading whates next, I¡¯m aching for it.

    ¡°Oleg, please¡­¡±

    He pushes inside me in one slow, powerful stroke. I cry out, my back arching off the cushions as I stare up at the star-strewn sky.

    He¡¯s huge¡ªI knew that already, but feeling him fill mepletely is something else entirely.

    But I¡¯m ready for him.

    I¡¯m soaking wet as he slides deeper, stretching me in the most delicious way.

    My body has never responded like this before, never wanted someone this badly. He peppers hot kisses down my neck and chest, thrusting into me with a caged control that makes me want to scream.

    When his tongue circles my nipple, I buck against him, silently begging for more.

    I raise my hips to meet each thrust, my body moving on pure instinct because sex has never been like this.

    Not with anyone.

    But this is what I¡¯ve been missing. This is the kind of sex everyone writes songs about, makes movies about, loses their minds over.

    His fingersce through mine as our eyes lock. The intensity in his gaze steals my breath.

    His jaw tightens, those mesmerizing eyes growing brighter and brighter as his thrusts be deeper, harder.

    I¡¯m drowning in sensation, losing all control over my body. It doesn¡¯t feel like mine anymore¡ªit belongs to him, responds to him, exists only for his touch.

    ¡°Oh, God!¡± The cry bursts from me as pleasure builds unexpectedly in my core. I¡¯ve never felt anything like this swelling, consuming heat.

    Then it explodes.

    I cry out as I cling to Oleg, clenching around him to the frantic beat of my heart.

    He gasps like he can¡¯t believe it, either.

    Like, somehow, unbelievably, this might be a new experience for him, too.

    He roars as he drives into me, cradling the top of my head with his hand to keep me from bashing my skull into the side of the yacht.

    Even in the middle of an orgasm, he¡¯s taking care of me.

    I can¡¯t believe I was ever afraid of him. That I thought he was a monster.

    Wee down to earth together, breathing hard.

    I¡¯m still limp when Oleg disentangles himself and goes looking for our clothes.

    As I lie there alone, I can¡¯t help but wonder if I¡¯m letting myself be yed for a fool. If I¡¯m falling into the trap of my mother and my sister, letting sex blind me to every other fault.

    Am I selling my body to the devil?

    I don¡¯t have an answer. But if it feels this good, I¡¯m not sure I care.<hr>

    A whileter, we¡¯re on the flybridge, watching the distant shoreline draw closer.

    The sight of lights and buildings is a rude intrusion after the intimacy we¡¯ve shared.

    The real world, creeping back in uninvited.

    Oleg pulls me onto hisp as he steers, his lips brushing my shoulder. For once, I don¡¯t overthink the gesture.

    ¡°How old were you when you learned to sail?¡± I ask, genuinely curious about this side of him.

    His arms tighten around me fractionally. ¡°Very young. My sister and I were six when our father started teaching us.¡± A pause. ¡°Oriana wasn¡¯t as interested as I was, but she ended up being the better sailor.¡±

    I twist to look at him. ¡°You have a sister?¡±

    ¡°Had. I had a sister. Oriana was my twin.¡±

    The darkness in his eyes when I was talking about Sydney earlier makes terrible sense now. The weight of the loss in his voice makes me want to cry.

    ¡°God, Oleg. I¡¯m so sorry.¡±

    He stares out at the dark water, expression distant. ¡°It was a long time ago.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think time matters much with something like that,¡± I say softly. ¡°If I lost Sydney¡­ I can¡¯t even imagine. Not if I lived for a hundred years.¡±

    His eyes meet mine, the color in them softer now. ¡°Yes. I suppose that¡¯s true for me, too.¡±

    My heart aches for him, for the boy he must have been. I want to hold him,fort him somehow, but I sense he¡¯d pull away if I tried.

    ¡°Can I ask how she died?¡±

    Faye warned me he wouldn¡¯t open up. I¡¯m pushing my luck. Just because we slept together doesn¡¯t mean anything.

    We¡¯re contractually-obligated fuck buddies, not friends.

    But his fingers flex against my waist as he takes a deep breath. ¡°It was a boating ident. The same one that killed my girlfriend. The same one that gave me these scars. They were both eighteen. Best friends.¡±

    My skin prickles with goosebumps. ¡°We don¡¯t have to talk about this,¡± I whisper. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have brought it up.¡±

    He shakes his head, simultaneously releasing his grip on me.

    I wonder if he even realizes he¡¯s done it, this instinctive withdrawal.

    ¡°It¡¯s easier to talk about them out here,¡± he says, voice rough. ¡°Easier to remember them. On the water, where we spent so much time together.¡±

    ¡°You loved them.¡±

    He doesn¡¯t answer, but I can see it in his eyes well enough. I feel a strange, slightly unfamiliar pang.

    A twinge of sadness for his lost sister.

    A twinge of jealousy for his lost love.

    ¡°Who do you usually talk about them with?¡±

    His brows draw together. ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°You said you don¡¯t talk about them often, but when you do, it¡¯s out here. I¡¯m wondering who you share these memories with.¡±

    ¡°Myself, mostly.¡±

    Without thinking, I reach out to touch his face. He allows it, which feels like its own kind of miracle.

    ¡°You¡¯re the first person I¡¯ve told in a long time.¡±

    I bite my lip to keep it from trembling. ¡°I¡¯m d you shared this with me. I¡¯m good with stuff like this¡­ talking, emotions, past traumas.¡±

    ¡°Are you now?¡±

    I blush under his unblinking gaze. ¡°What I¡¯m not good at is¡­ what we just did.¡±

    ¡°Sex?¡±

    I nod, feeling oddly vulnerable given everything we just shared.

    ¡°I have proof that¡¯s not true. It was¡ª¡± He clears his throat. ¡°It was good for me.¡±

    ¡°It was¡ª Er¡ª Yeah,¡± I splutter. ¡°Me, too. I just¡­ I¡¯m usually too in my head about it. Overthinking everything.¡±

    His eyebrow arches. ¡°But not just now?¡±

    ¡°No. It was different with you.¡± It takes all my courage to get the words out. I wait with bated breath for his reaction.

    But apart from a slight softening of his eyes, he gives nothing away.

    ¡°Then it¡¯s a good thing you signed my contract,¡± he says atst.

    I lean back against his chest, watching the shoreline grow closer.

    I don¡¯t respond. There¡¯s nothing left to say.

    Besides, he¡¯s right. For all my regrets in life¡ªand there are many¡ªsigning that contract isn¡¯t one of them.

    Not anymore.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 25

    I¡¯ve never been particrly patient when ites to women. They rarely dare to make me wait. I simply leave if they do.

    It¡¯s thirty minutes past when we should¡¯ve left, and there¡¯s still no sign of Sutton. The door to her guest room is closed, and she doesn¡¯t seem to be in any hurry.

    Probably because she knows I can¡¯t leave without her.

    Showing up to my own engagement part without my fianc¨¦e isn¡¯t the tone I want to set for this marriage.

    With the way my mother is blowing up my phone, it might be toote.

    This over-the-top soir¨¦e is being held at her house on Jupiter Ind, where most of Palm Beach¡¯s elite are waiting for us. Making desperate social climbers cool their heels is one thing, but making my mother wait is courting disaster.

    It¡¯s just not worth the hassle.

    Sutton is about to learn that lesson the hard way.

    ¡°Christ,¡± I mutter, checking my Rolex again.

    I pace outside her door like a caged beast, resisting the urge to break it down. I might have done that already if I wasn¡¯t worried about getting sidetracked and making us eventer to our own party.

    The memory of ourst night together on my yacht haunts me¡ªher curves drenched in moonlight, her breathy sighs carried away by the ocean breeze.

    Five days of meetings in Russia haven¡¯t dimmed the want.

    If anything, being apart has only sharpened it to a deadly edge. It¡¯s been five days of only the memory of her to keep me warm.

    Then her door opens and allints die on my tongue.

    Holy.

    Fucking.

    Hell.

    The ivory halter dress I chose hugs every lush curve of her body. Strategic cutouts reveal teasing glimpses of side-boob that make my mouth water.

    The woman at the boutique said this dress would be a good bnce of ¡°ssy yet sexy.¡±

    But as I look her up and down, it¡¯s sexy, sexy, sexy on repeat in my head.

    Her natural beauty puts the surgeon-crafted features of the socialites I¡¯m familiar with to shame. She bites her bottom lip nervously, still ying innocent while her body is putting dangerous ideas in my head.

    It¡¯s like kryptonite.

    I¡¯m not supposed to actually want my contract bride. This is all for show.

    But my jaw drops all on its own.

    ¡°Wow.¡±

    A blush paints her cheeks as she smooths nervous hands down the dress. ¡°Are you sure it looks alright?¡±

    ¡°You look perfect.¡±

    In the dress, out of the dress¡ªperfect either way.

    ¡°Is it too tight?¡± She tugs on the seam, straining the fabric across her chest in a way that makes me want to groan.

    ¡°It¡¯s just tight enough.¡±

    She looks down at herself with a sigh. ¡°It took forever to squeeze into. The top¡ª Well, I¡¯m falling out the sides a bit. I¡¯m not sure it¡¯s supposed to fit like?¡ª¡±

    ¡°It fits amazingly.¡± I don¡¯t bother hiding my appreciation, my gaze sweeping over her again. ¡°You¡¯re going to kill them tonight, Sutton.¡±

    She stands a bit taller, but the first step she takes in her strappy ck stilettos has her stumbling into my chest.

    ¡°Shit. These things are death traps.¡±

    I catch her around the waist, my thumb brushing over warm, bare skin. ¡°But they¡¯re worth it.¡±

    ¡°Says the man who isn¡¯t going to face-nt in front of the elites.¡±

    Smirking, I take her hand. ¡°Hold onto me; I won¡¯t let you fall. Now,e on, we¡¯rete.¡±

    Her hand stays in mine all the way through the building and out the front doors, where she gasps at the stretch limo waiting along the curb.

    ¡°We¡¯re taking that?¡±

    ¡°I knew I¡¯d need a driver. I won¡¯t be able to focus with you in that dress.¡±

    Her blush spreads down her neck. ¡°Right. But a limo? It¡¯s a bit¡­ much.¡±

    ¡°And you¡¯ve just described my mother in four words.¡± I hold open the back door, ushering her into the backseat.

    She slides into the limo¡¯s plush interior, immediately fidgeting with the diamonds dripping from her wrist. The nervous gesture draws my attention to her hands¡ªdelicate, with short, practical nails.

    Not the garish, manicured talons I¡¯m used to seeing on the women in my world.

    ¡°What¡¯s your mother really like? I need to know more about her.¡±

    Sutton¡¯s question is like a bucket of ice water on my thoughts. I drag my attention from where it¡¯s focused on her dress riding up her thighs.

    ¡°The technical term would be ¡®ball-buster.¡¯¡±

    ¡°Oh, God.¡±

    I wave her worry away. ¡°I¡¯ll be right beside you the whole time. My mother¡¯s intimidating, but she respects authenticity. You¡¯re nothing if not authentic.¡±

    ¡°So don¡¯t try to suck up to her?¡± she guesses.

    ¡°Fast learner.¡±

    She dusts an imagined piece of lint from her dress. ¡°Who else is going to be at this thing?¡±

    ¡°About a hundred of Palm Beach¡¯s finest, hand-picked by my mother.¡±

    She jolts forward like she¡¯s going to swallow her tongue. ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡ªwhat? A hundred? Like¡­ one hundred? Why didn¡¯t you warn me?¡±

    ¡°What good would it have done?¡±

    As far as parties go, this one is smaller than most. If my future bride had been one my mother selected, it would¡¯ve been five hundred guests, at least.

    As it is, she wants to keep things ¡°intimate.¡±

    ¡°It would¡¯ve given me time to prepare!¡± Her blue eyes re with panic, her chest heaving against the delicate material of her dress in a way that is very distracting.

    I pull my eyes up to her pale face. ¡°The less time you have to overthink these things, the better.¡±

    She slumps against the leather seat. ¡°Not helping.¡±

    I press the button for the privacy partition, catching Uri¡¯s curious nce in the rearview mirror before the ck screen hides him from view.

    ¡°Usually, I¡¯d be worried you¡¯re about to murder me, but I actually think you¡¯d be doing me a favor now.¡± She gives a shakyugh.

    ¡°It won¡¯t be that bad.¡± My eyes drift to the tempting curve of exposed skin. ¡°The champagne alone is worth it.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d rather be in sweats hiding under my covers.¡±

    The image of her in bed proves too much for my already-strained control. I slide closer, wrapping an arm around her waist.

    Her sharp intake of breath is music to my ears.

    ¡°It would be a shame to waste this dress.¡± My voice drops to a growl. ¡°And this body.¡±

    ¡°People have seen more than enough of my body as it is.¡±

    ¡°No such thing for me.¡± I nip at her soft skin. ¡°And the whole point of this party is for people to notice you. They won¡¯t have a choice while you¡¯re wearing this.¡±

    My fingers pass along the inside of her thigh. Her legs part like she can¡¯t help herself, opening for me.

    ¡°I don¡¯t want to be noticed, Oleg. I need to be?¡ª¡±

    I stroke along thece front of her panties, and we both freeze.

    ¡°What you need¡ª¡± I circle the pad of my thumb against her center. ¡°¡ªis to rx. I know how to help with that.¡±

    My lips find her neck as I slip my thumb beneath the fabric, stroking her velvety softness. She rolls against my thumb, breathless. ¡°The dress¡­ My hair¡­¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, princess. I won¡¯tpletely ruin you.¡±

    No matter how badly I want to.

    Five days of celibacy has me wound tight. Having her this close, packaged like sin incarnate¡ªit¡¯s more than I can stand.

    Not without a small taste, at least.

    She¡¯s wet for me. Drenched. I spread her arousal with my thumb while she writhes.

    ¡°But¡­ Uri¡­¡±

    I grit my teeth at the sound of any other man¡¯s name on her lips. Maybe I should ruin her just a little. Enough that anyone who sees her will know what she was doing before the party and who she was doing it with.

    Mine.

    I rotate my hand and slide my middle finger into her. She moans into my kiss as she stretches around me.

    I stroke out of her and push in with two fingers.

    ¡°Oleg¡ª!¡± she gasps.

    That¡¯s more like it.

    She may be nervous about the party, but that hasn¡¯t stopped her from soaking through her panties for me.

    I rain kisses down her neck as I work her with my fingers, feeling her surrender with every slide of our skin together. I¡¯m unknotting her worries from the inside out.

    She curls her fingers into my hair and drags my mouth back to hers. Our tongues sh together as she rides my hand, rolling herself deeper onto my fingers.

    I reach out with my free hand until I find the volume knob, cranking the music to drown out the desperate noises pouring out of her.

    I¡¯m supposed to be getting her pregnant. We¡¯re here to make an heir and y at marriage¡ªneither of which involve fingering her in the back of a limo.

    But I don¡¯t care.

    I feel the first flutters of her climax around my fingers and nothing else matters.

    I grip her jaw, my hand syed across her pretty throat from ear to ear. ¡°Come for me, Sutton.¡±

    Her pupils are wide, dark pools when she looks up at me¡­

    ¡­ and falls to pieces on my hand.

    When shees, I have to grit my teeth to maintain control. I¡¯m on the edge of release just from watching her, and no woman has ever had this effect on me.

    I slide out of her and sit tall, trying to steady my breathing while she is sprawled across the seat, hair fanned around her head like a halo.

    ¡°There. Now, you¡¯re rxed.¡±

    Sheughs, pressing a hand to her chest. ¡°If anything, I¡¯m more nervous. Look at me.¡±

    I am looking at her¡ªthat¡¯s the problem. I want to do a hell of a lot more than look at her.

    ¡°I don¡¯t see any issue.¡±

    ¡°I look like I just got ravaged in a limo.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t hear anyints while you were riding my fingers.¡±

    My hand is sticky from her, and I grudgingly grab a tissue from the backseat to clean myself up. I want to use my mouth¡ªsee if she tastes as good as she smells.

    Not now. Later.

    She scrambles to a sitting position, snapping her legs closed andbing fingers through her tangled hair. ¡°I¡¯m just lucky I brought some spare lipstick.¡±

    By the time we make it to the party, Sutton has managed to make herself halfway decent again, though I preferred her tousled hair and smudged lipstick.

    ¡°We¡¯re here,¡± I announce as Uri opens her door.

    She¡¯s so focused on adjusting her dress that it¡¯s not until she¡¯s standing on the circle drive that she looks up and freezes.

    ¡°Oh my God. That¡¯s where your mother lives?¡±

    The mansion looms before us, framed by towering Corinthian columns. A marble walkway lined with meticulously sculpted topiaries leads to looming bronze doors. Through the windows, crystal chandeliers cast warm light across the gathering inside.

    ¡°This is insane,¡± she whispers, edging closer to me.

    Just like I told her to do back at the penthouse, Sutton grabs my hand. Her fingersce through mine and squeeze.

    Like she trusts me to keep her safe.

    To protect her.

    It¡¯s been a long time since anyone has expected anything like that from me. Almost twenty years, to be exact.

    I blink away the ghosts of my past and focus on the monsters in the present. About how best to protect my fianc¨¦e from what awaits her inside.

    I squeeze back, steadying her against my side. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. You¡¯ve got this, Sutton. And I¡¯ve got you.¡±

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 26

    My mother meets us at the door, standing sentry in a bejeweled gown and six-inch heels I¡¯m convinced are surgically affixed to her feet. I never see her without them.

    Her smile is chilly, not quite hiding the curl of her upper lip. ¡°You¡¯re here.¡±

    The ¡°finally¡± is a silent addition that only I hear.

    We kept her waiting. Strike one.

    I open my mouth to bite back and earn us a strike two, but Sutton steps forward. ¡°That¡¯s my fault. I was running a littlete.¡±

    ¡°Then get dressed earlier.¡± It¡¯s not a joke, but Oksana lets out a tinklingugh anyway.

    Sutton¡¯s smile falters and I pull her into my side to keep myself from doing something stupid. ¡°We¡¯re the guests of honor, Maman. We¡¯re supposed to make a grand entrance.¡±

    ¡°Yes, but you can¡¯t make a grand entrance once everyone has gone home,¡± she mutters through thin lips.

    She turns back to the ballroom, her face transforming into a mask of pure delight. The change is so jarring it¡¯s almost demonic.

    Sutton squeezes my arm. ¡°You didn¡¯t introduce me.¡±

    ¡°She already knows who you are, Sutton.¡±

    ¡°But I don¡¯t know her,¡± she whispers. ¡°I¡¯m here to get to know her.¡±

    Sweet, naive little thing.

    If only it were that simple.

    ¡°You were scared of sharks in this ocean, but this is where they really live. You¡¯re here to show them you know how to swim.¡±

    My mother raises a crystal flute, tapping it with a gold-ted knife. The room is turning to us and I¡¯m going to have scars from how tightly Sutton is holding onto me.

    ¡°But I don¡¯t know how to swim, Oleg. I can¡¯t do this. I don¡¯t know how to?¡ª¡±

    ¡°The happy couple!¡± My mother turns to us as the room erupts in apuse.

    I pry Sutton¡¯s fingers from my arm and ce a hand on her lower back, pushing her forward and hoping I¡¯m not chumming the water.

    ¡°Pretend.¡±<hr>

    Whether my mother likes it or not, Sutton is charming.

    Her self-deprecation puts the women at ease. Her warm smile and unbelievable body keep the men interested until I level them with a re fitting of my nickname.

    And my mother doesn¡¯t like it.

    Not any of it.

    Not at all.

    It¡¯s good for the family that Sutton can hold her own here, but the scowl my mother has worn most of the night lets me know she¡¯d rather be right than pleasantly surprised.

    She¡¯d rather watch Sutton stumble and fall.

    She¡¯d rather I stand in the center of this party and publicly end my engagement than have to admit that I made the correct call with my selection.

    But watching Sutton breeze through the party, making friends and ying nice, I know I made the right call.

    I don¡¯t need my mother¡¯s approval.

    Sutton is standing at the bar, saying something that has Desiree Franco in a fit ofughter. The woman owns a chain of high-end lingerie boutiques across the country, and I make a mental note to order Sutton something from each of them.

    Starting now, any friend of my fianc¨¦e is a friend of mine.

    ¡°She¡¯s trying too hard.¡±

    My mother¡¯s voice shatters the moment. I hide my sigh with a sip of my whiskey. ¡°There¡¯s no such thing.¡±

    ¡°There certainly is.¡± She slides into my periphery, impossible to ignore. ¡°She isn¡¯t one of us, and she¡¯s making that obvious. They should be trying to be friends with us. Not the other way around. She¡¯s making us look desperate.¡±

    ¡°¡®Desperate¡¯ was you telling me to pick a woman¡ªany woman.¡±

    ¡°I assumed you had more sense than this,¡± she spits. ¡°I assumed you had standards.¡±

    I ce my empty ss on a passing waiter¡¯s tray and turn to her. ¡°I do, which is why I never would¡¯ve married any of the women you chose for me.¡±

    Her cheeks flush with anger¡ªthe only sign that she has a heart at all. ¡°Is this some kind of rebellion? Did you choose Sutton just to upset me?¡±

    ¡°Believe it or not, Maman, I¡¯m a grown man and my decisions have nothing to do with you. I need a wife and an heir to im what¡¯s mine. I found one.¡±

    ¡°You need my support to overthrow your uncle,¡± she hisses. ¡°That was the deal. Or are you forgetting that you still need me?¡±

    Maybe at one point that was true. But watching Sutton not just survive but thrive¡­ The two of us together might be stronger than I anticipated.

    ¡°Uncle Boris isn¡¯t even here tonight. Looks like I might be well on my way to taking his ce already.¡±

    She smiles as a woman dripping in diamonds and unbearable perfume squeezes her shoulder as she passes, then waits until the woman is gone before she leans in close. ¡°He¡¯s still the head of this Bratva. You can¡¯t afford to alienate him this early.¡±

    ¡°You underestimate me.¡±

    ¡°Only because I know how impulsive and reckless you can be.¡± Each word is a precise strike between my ribs, finding old wounds easily, effortlessly.

    I deserve the pain.

    I deserve every reminder of the two lives that were lost because of me.

    Still, I square my shoulders. ¡°I¡¯m not eighteen anymore. I¡¯ve learned to handle myself.¡±

    ¡°I thought so, too.¡±

    The icy tone in her voice makes it clear enough what she thinks. But I don¡¯t care.

    Gritting my teeth, I throw myself into the crowd. I move fast enough to discourage people from stopping me.

    I shouldn¡¯t have let her get to me. Rookie mistake to even give her the window of opportunity. Oksana Pavlova never misses a chance to pour salt in an open wound.

    I blow past people, not slowing as they say my name or try to offer congrattions. I don¡¯t stop until I finally see Sutton, cornered by¡­

    My ex-girlfriend.

    Fuck.

    Calling Andrea Montgomery my girlfriend is a stretch. We fucked for a month before I cut her loose and never spoke to her again.

    Until now, apparently.

    I approach from behind, so Andrea can¡¯t see me as she practically hisses at my fianc¨¦e, ¡°Working with children¡­ Why on earth would you want to do that?¡± She throws her tinum blonde hair over her shoulder, spraying her sickly-sweet perfume like the skunk she is.

    For the first time all night, Sutton isn¡¯t smiling. She¡¯s staring Andrea down like she¡¯s deciding where tond the first punch. ¡°I happen to like children. And they like me, too.¡±

    ¡°I guess that makes sense. Children are always getting into ces they don¡¯t belong. You probably have a lot inmon with them.¡±

    The jabnds. Sutton flinches but doesn¡¯t retreat.

    Fight back, I¡¯m silently roaring at her. Don¡¯t take this lying down.

    ¡°Do you still work with children?¡±

    ¡°Not currently.¡±

    ¡°Ooooh.¡± Andrea draws out the syble, pumping it full of meaning. ¡°Maybe you don¡¯t love children as much as you say. You were just biding your time until you could catch a rich husband.¡±

    I¡¯m about to step in and end this shit when Sutton¡¯s bitterugh stops me cold. ¡°You think I¡¯m with Oleg for his money?¡± Her blue eyes simmer with ice. ¡°Honey, I¡¯m with him for the sex.¡±

    Andrea¡¯s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

    Silence has never been so fucking beautiful.

    I choose this moment to make my entrance. ¡°Good evening,dies.¡±

    ¡°Oleg.¡± Sutton¡¯s voice is a caress. She says my name like I¡¯m already inside of her, and fuck, now I wish I was.

    She drapes her body against mine, wrapping her hands around my neck.

    Then, in front of Andrea and all of our guests, she kisses me.

    My amusement gives way to raw desire as her tongue curls into my mouth. I fist the delicate material at her hip, hauling her closer to me, grinding my aching erection against her warmth.

    My amusement burns away in the face of raw need. I fist the delicate material at her hip, grinding my aching cock against her heat. She moans into my mouth and I¡¯m seconds away from taking her right here.

    On the floor.

    Against the wall.

    I¡¯ll fill her with my baby in front of these fucking vultures. Let them try to deny the validity of my heir after that.

    But then Sutton presses a hand to my chest and eases back.

    Her lipstick is smeared, her face flushed. She¡¯s beautifully disheveled as she turns to look for Andrea. But the witch has disappeared.

    ¡°Bitch,¡± Sutton whispers.

    I adjust myself, trying to getfortable when all I want is to be buried inside of her. ¡°I think I might feel used.¡±

    ¡°Sorry, but¡ª Ugh. She thinks she¡¯s so much better than me. She judged me for working and then judged me for not. I should¡¯ve told her that keeping every stic surgeon in Palm Beach employed isn¡¯t a career.¡±

    I¡¯ve never seen her this worked up. Or so feisty. I¡¯d love nothing more than to channel this heat into something more mutually beneficial for the both of us.

    But Sutton whips back to me. ¡°Did you date her?¡±

    I grimace. ¡°Briefly.¡±

    She huffs out a breath and crosses her arms.

    ¡°Jealous?¡±

    ¡°Jealous? No. I just didn¡¯t know you were interested in hoity-toity bitches with stic noses and crooked boob jobs.¡±

    My little kitten has ws. Usually, this kind of territorial disy would be my cue to exit stage left. But right now? I¡¯m fucking grinning.

    ¡°The boob job came after we broke up.¡±

    ¡°You have them memorized?¡± she spits. ¡°Were you looking at her chest?¡±

    I reach out and push her hair behind her ear. ¡°You¡¯re cute when you¡¯re territorial.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not territorial! I just¡ª That was¡ª I kissed you just to shut her up.¡±

    ¡°Fine by me. Feel free to use me anytime you want.¡±

    A shy grin lifts the corners of her mouth. ¡°Can we leave now?¡±

    My cock twitches. ¡°Fuck yes. Let¡¯s go.¡±

    I take her hand and pull her toward the double doors. I¡¯ll deal with my mother¡¯s wrathter.

    Right now, I want Sutton in the back of my limo, screaming my name.

    But we¡¯re halfway to freedom when we round a marble column and there she is.

    The dragondy herself.

    ¡°Leaving already?¡± asks Oksana.

    I tuck Sutton partially behind me, even though she¡¯s proven she can handle herself in this snake pit. ¡°I was looking for you.¡±

    The arch of her thin brow tells me she knows better. ¡°Last to arrive, first to leave. It¡¯s disrespectful to your guests.¡±

    ¡°You threw such a great party that our guests are drunk enough not to mind anymore,¡± I bite back.

    Suddenly, Sutton slips next to me, her hand stroking slowly up my spine. ¡°Yes, thank you, Mrs. Pavlov. You really didn¡¯t need to go to all this trouble just for?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Actually, all this trouble is very necessary.¡± My mother looks around pointedly before she steps closer, voice dangerously low. ¡°You¡¯re engaged to the heir of the Pavlov Bratva. If you¡¯re going to be his wife and raise his children, you need to understand your expectations.¡±

    The threat hangs in the air like poison gas. Then my mother does something worse than murder¡ªshe reaches for Sutton.

    My fianc¨¦e jerks against me like she¡¯s about to be gutted, but then realizes it¡¯s just a hug. The most passive-aggressive hug in the history of forced physical contact, but a hug nheless.

    ¡°Wee to the family, Sutton,¡± my mother says loudly enough for eavesdroppers to hear.

    Then she releases Sutton and turns back for the ballroom.

    The hug seems to have broken Sutton¡¯s brain more effectively than any threat could have. I have to drag her down the steps to the waiting limo.

    It isn¡¯t until we¡¯re safely locked in the back seat that she exhales.

    ¡°What the actual fuck was that?¡±

    ¡°A performance. You¡¯ll get used to it.¡±

    ¡°No, I won¡¯t.¡± She looks dazed, staring at her hands like they belong to someone else. Then her head snaps up. ¡°And what was she talking about? She said you were the heir of some¡­ bratwurst? Brat van? What¡¯s that?¡±

    I probably should¡¯ve told her, but I didn¡¯t think it changed anything. It doesn¡¯t change anything.

    Her smile wavers. ¡°Oleg?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s nothing. Just the family business.¡±

    ¡°I thought Pavlov Industries was the family business?¡±

    ¡°It is. One of them.¡± She¡¯s still staring at me expectantly, so I shrug. ¡°It¡¯s Russian.¡±

    Her brows crease together. ¡°There¡¯s something wrong with it¡­ isn¡¯t there?¡±

    I only shake my head. ¡°This changes nothing, Sutton. I am going to take care of you. I¡¯ll keep you safe. The contract we signed still stands.¡±

    She blinks up at me, hurt shing across her face before she turns to the window. ¡°Right. The contract.¡±

    I take her hand and she shifts her eyes to mine reluctantly. I can¡¯t give her the assurances she wants.

    I can¡¯t promise to be a good husband.

    I can¡¯t promise to love her unconditionally.

    I can¡¯t promise to give her the fairy tale ending that she so clearly wants.

    But I can give her this.

    ¡°I¡¯ll protect you,¡± I promise. ¡°You and our child.¡±

    Her blue eyes are soft and for a moment, in the shadowy light, I think I see tears. Then she blinks and her eyes are clear once more. ¡°Your life must be dangerous. If you need to protect me, then it means there are things and people to protect me from.¡±

    ¡°Technically, yes. But you don¡¯t need to worry about that right now. I have things under control.¡±

    Before I can even get the words out, the limo screeches to a half. Uri curses in the front seat and I throw an arm out to keep Sutton from falling forward.

    ¡°What was that?¡± she shrieks.

    I catch Uri¡¯s panicked eyes in the rearview mirror just before an engine revs.

    I turn to the window to see a dozen motorcycles surrounding our car. The riders are dressed in ck, faces hidden behind masks.

    I just told her I had things under control.

    Looks like I spoke too soon.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 27

    ¡°Get down.¡±

    My heart is hammering in my chest, but the rest of me is frozen. I¡¯ve never heard Oleg¡¯s voice this cold, this deadly.

    Themand reverberates through the limo, bouncing off bulletproof ss and hitting me square in the chest.

    Through the tinted windows, dark figures materialize on motorcycles like demons emerging from the shadows. Their faces are hidden behind ck helmets and masks, but their intent is clear in the way they nk our vehicle.

    Predators circling prey.

    ¡°Wh-what¡¯s going on?¡± My voice trembles, betraying the fear I¡¯m trying desperately to contain.

    Oleg doesn¡¯t answer immediately. His jaw clenches, muscle ticking beneath scarred skin as he reaches under his seat. The motion is fluid, practiced. He¡¯s done this before.

    ¡°I¡¯ll let you know as soon as I do.¡± Steel threads through his words. ¡°For now, get down.¡±

    I should move. Should drop to the floor like he ordered.

    But I¡¯m transfixed by the transformation happening beside me.

    Gone is the man who held my hand at tonight¡¯s party, who whispered filthy promises in my ear during the first course.

    In his ce sits the Beast of Palm Beach.

    I get why they call him that now.

    The gun he pulls out is matte ck and terrifyingly businesslike. No shy chrome or ivory handle like in the movies.

    This is a weapon meant for one purpose only: killing.

    ¡°Th-that¡¯s a g-gun¡­¡±

    I told myself¡ªno, I promised myself that I would never again be involved with any man who¡¯s involved in shit like this.

    I learned my lesson with Drew.

    Memories of my ex sh through my mind¡ªthe still-warm weapons he¡¯d casually toss onto our kitchen counter, the mysterious meetings, the constant edge of danger that eventually drove me away.

    I swore I was finished with this kind of life.

    Yet here I am, watching another dangerous man prepare for violence.

    When I don¡¯t move fast enough, Oleg¡¯s hand mps around my arm. He pushes me down just as the first shot cracks through the night air.

    The sound is deafening, nothing like the muted pops you hear on TV.

    This is primal, visceral.

    It¡¯s what death sounds like.

    ¡°Oh my God!¡± I press my hands over my ears, trying to block out the chaos erupting around us.

    The limo elerates sharply, sending me to the floor. I crawl to the center of the car as the mini fridge bursts open. Sparkling water and imported sodas spill across the leather, bottles flying around as Uri takes another hard turn.

    I risk a nce up at Oleg. His expression steals my breath.

    Where there should be fear or anger, there¡¯s only lethal focus. He cocks the gun with practiced ease, the click of metal on metal sending shivers down my spine.

    More shots ring out, and I can¡¯t hold back my squeal as we swerve again. The bulletproof ss must be doing its job because we¡¯re still alive, but that doesn¡¯t stop my heart from trying to punch through my ribcage.

    ¡°Whatever happens,¡± Oleg snarls through my panic, ¡°don¡¯t get up.¡±

    Then he does the unthinkable: He reaches for the window control.

    I want to scream at him to stop. To get down here with me.

    I can¡¯t watch you die.

    But the ss is already sliding down, cold night air whipping into the cabin, stealing my voice and my courage.

    Bullets pepper the limo¡¯s exterior like deadly hail. The sound is oddly muffled, as if we¡¯re underwater. Armored panels, I realize distantly.

    The whole car is a fortress on wheels.

    Oleg leans out the window, muscled torso twisting as he takes aim. In the orange glow of streetlights, he looks carved from marble¡ªa vengeful god dealing death from above.

    The gun barks in his hand once, twice, three times.

    Unable to stop myself, I sit up a little taller. I don¡¯t know if I want to roll out of the car or drag Oleg back into the safety of the limo with me.

    Before I can decide, a masked rider surges forward.

    Through the lowered window, I catch sight of his leather jacket, the emblem emzoned across his shoulders. Something about it tugs at a memory, but before I can ce it, the sound of a gunshot rips my thought to shreds.

    Oleg¡¯s bullet finds its mark.

    The rider¡¯s head snaps back. His bike careens sideways, taking down two more attackers in a tangle of metal and limbs.

    Uri lets out an appreciative whistle as we swerve right. I¡¯m knocked back to the floor, my shoulder connecting with something sharp. Pain blooms bright and sharp, but I don¡¯t really feel it.

    My head is quicksand.

    Time is fluid.

    I lose track of how long we drive, how many shots are fired. The world narrows to the thunder of my pulse and the acrid scent of gunpowder.

    Then warmth encircles my wrist. ¡°Up, princess. We¡¯ve lost them.¡±

    Oleg pulls me onto the seat beside him, his arm sliding around my shoulders. The gesture is protective, possessive.

    As if he didn¡¯t just kill a man in front of me.

    ¡°You okay?¡±

    I twist to face him, searching for any trace of the Beast. But his features have softened again. He¡¯s the Oleg I know.

    The Oleg I thought I knew.

    ¡°Is that a trick question?¡± I croak.

    ¡°Kind of. The limo is bulletproof. And I happen to be an excellent shot.¡±

    I flinch, remembering the rider¡¯s head snapping back. The violence had been too quick to process in the moment, but now, the images flood my mind with horrible rity.

    Too crisp.

    Too fast.

    Too fucking red.

    ¡°Who were they?¡±

    ¡°People who want something from me.¡±

    ¡°By running you off the road and trying to kill you?¡± Hysteria edges into my voice. ¡°Seems like a stupid way to get what they want.¡±

    ¡°Her first Bratva run-in and she¡¯s making jokes already.¡± His hand drifts up my neck, thumb brushing my thundering pulse. ¡°I knew you were something special.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t be too impressed. Pretty sure it¡¯s the shock talking.¡± My fingers press against my sternum, trying to cage my rioting heart. ¡°Really, Oleg. Who were those men?¡±

    That emblem shes through my mind again. It¡¯s like a word on the tip of my tongue, right there, begging me to remember.

    But Oleg¡¯s proximity is making it hard to think. He¡¯s radiating heat like a furnace, his arm still tight around my shoulders.

    The scent of gunpowder clings to his skin. It mixes with his cologne in a way that should repulse me but instead sends heat curling low in my belly.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he murmurs. ¡°But I sure as hell am gonna find out.¡±

    His touch is innocent enough, but my body responds like he¡¯s caressing bare skin. Maybe it¡¯s the leftover adrenaline, or maybe it¡¯s the way he handled himself tonight¡ªthe way he protected me.

    Either way, I¡¯m hyper-aware of every point of contact between us.

    His eyes darken as he reads the shift in my breathing. ¡°You¡¯re trembling.¡±

    ¡°Side effect of almost dying.¡±

    But we both know that¡¯s not why I¡¯m shaking now.

    ¡°No one¡¯s dying tonight, princess.¡±

    Even after everything I just saw, I trust him. I know he¡¯s telling me the truth.

    I lick my lips. ¡°I believe you.¡±

    A streak of something fierce and possessive shes across his face. Then his mouth is on mine, and thought bes impossible.

    The kiss is brutal, demanding. It¡¯s everything I should run from and everything I need right now.

    I arch into him, fingers curling in his shirt. A small, rational part of my brain tries to remind me that I just watched this man kill someone.

    But that voice grows fainter with each sweep of his tongue, each bruising press of his hands.

    By the time we reach the house, we¡¯re both breathing hard for entirely different reasons than before. The fear has transmuted into something else. Words can¡¯t capture it¡ªI can only whimper when he pulls away to unlock the door.

    ¡°Inside,¡± he growls. ¡°Now.¡±

    We make it one step through the door before his hands are on me again. The foyer spins as he presses me against the wall. His mouth finds a spot behind my ear that makes my knees buckle.

    ¡°You were so good tonight,¡± he murmurs against my skin. ¡°So brave for me.¡±

    The praise shouldn¡¯t affect me this way, but it sends electricity dancing down my spine. I grind into him, desperate for more contact. His answering groan vibrates through my chest.

    ¡°Oleg¡­¡±

    He ims my mouth again. This one is deeper, hungrier than the ones that came before. His hands slide down my sides, leaving paths of fire in their wake.

    When they reach my thighs, he lifts me effortlessly and I lock my ankles behind his back.

    By the time heys me on his king-sized bed, our clothes are gone. He¡¯s all chiseled muscle in the moonlight pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning his scarred skin to glistening silver.

    He falls over me, arms caged around my head, his breath hot on my neck.

    ¡°I¡¯ll keep you safe, princess,¡± he whispers as he enters me.

    All my life, men have been dangerous. They¡¯ve been threats against me, my mother, my sister.

    Men are the monsters.

    But Oleg is different.

    Even after everything I saw tonight, my body wees him like it was made for this¡ªfor him. Each thrust draws cries from my throat and forces me to face what I can no longer deny:

    I have feelings for this man.

    I want to panic, but his hands are everywhere¡ªiming, marking, worshipping. The pleasure builds until I¡¯m trembling on the edge, desperate and needy.

    ¡°That¡¯s it.¡± His voice is strained with the effort of control. ¡°Let go for me. I¡¯ve got you.¡±

    I shatter around him with a cry that echoes off the vaulted ceiling. He follows momentster, my name a feral rasp against my skin.

    Theedown is slow,nguid. Oleg¡¯s weight anchors me to reality as our breathing steadies. He rolls to his side, pulling me with him so we¡¯re facing each other in the moonlit darkness. His fingers tracezy patterns on my hip until he sinks into heavy sleep.

    But I¡¯m wide awake, my mind racing faster than those motorcycles that chased us earlier. The peace I felt in his arms starts to crack as the real world steals back in.

    Carefully, I extract myself from his embrace. The sheet whispers against my skin as I wrap it around me and pad to the window.

    Palm Beach glitters below.

    So beautiful.

    So deceptive.

    Now that the adrenaline and endorphins have faded, I remember that emblem. The stylized M wrapped in thorns¡ªI¡¯ve seen it before. On papers scattered across Drew¡¯s desk. On the phones of men who used to visit our apartmentte at night. Inked into their skin.

    I nce back at Oleg. Even in sleep, he radiates power. The scarred side of his face catches the moonlight, and something in my chest tightens.

    He¡¯s lethal, dangerous, everything I swore I¡¯d stay away from after Drew.

    But he¡¯s also¡­ different.

    As insane as it sounds, I trust the way my body responds to him. Trust the feeling of safety I get in his arms, even after watching him kill a man tonight.

    I might even trust him.

    But I¡¯ve been down this road before¡ªcaught between deadly men and their deadly games. Last time, I ran.

    Butst time was different.

    Last time, my heart wasn¡¯t involved.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 28

    The Kangaroo is exactly what you¡¯d expect from a ce that serves watered-down piss and calls it beer. Dark wood, darker faces, and the kind of stench that makes you wonder if something died in herest week.

    ¡°This is a terrible fucking idea,¡± Artem mutters beside me, his usual grin reced with a scowl that means business.

    A few patrons are scattered around like forgotten garbage. Only the bartender is paying us any attention, his watery green eyes darting between me and the door like he¡¯s expecting something.

    ¡°Ten minutes,¡± I say under my breath, moving toward the ck door behind the bar. ¡°That¡¯s how long we have before this ce fills up with more assholes than bullets.¡±

    ¡°Ten minutes? Since when did you be an optimist?¡± Artem follows close, his shoulder brushing mine.

    Ready. Always ready.

    ¡°Since I started having something to lose.¡±

    The words slip out before I can catch them, and I feel Artem¡¯s knowing look drilling into the back of my head. He knows better than to poke at that right now, but I¡¯ll never hear the end of itter.

    It would be even worse if he knew how I spent the hours after the gunfight. Instead of diving into surveince and recon like I normally would¡¯ve, I was offline for hours, wrapped up in Sutton until I literally couldn¡¯t keep my eyes open.

    Every time I thought about leaving the room, I¡¯d remember the fear in her eyes as she was crouched on the floor of the limo. I kept seeing a different oue, one where she didn¡¯t make it out of the car.

    I needed to remind myself that she was alive.

    Needed to feel her under me, around me.

    I shove thoughts of her soft skin under my hands to the back of my mind as we approach the bartender.

    ¡°Private game back there,¡± he says, shaking his head. ¡°Members only.¡±

    I pull out a thick stack of hundreds, letting themnd on the sticky bar with a wet p. ¡°Consider this my membership fee.¡±

    His mustache twitches, eyes sliding to the ancient drunk at the end of the bar. A signal. Subtle, but not subtle enough.

    He folds the cash into his palm and shrugs. ¡°Your funeral.¡±

    The door to the back room creaks like something out of a horror movie. The dank smell is even stronger back here¡ªstale beer and the kind of desperation you can taste.

    A single bulb swings overhead, casting shadows that dance on the water-stained walls.

    ¡°That mudak is setting us up,¡± Artem hisses in my ear.

    ¡°I know.¡±

    ¡°Then why the fuck are we sticking around?¡±

    ¡°Because we have time,¡± I say calmly.

    We turn a sharp corner and I spot the poker table through the haze of smoke. Four men are hunched over it, but I hone in on Drew Anton immediately.

    His lean,nky build and white-blonde hair are even more distinctive in person than in the pictures that my security team tracked down. When he clocks us, he leans back in his chair, an oily smile stretched across his face that makes me want to shake Sutton and ask what the hell she was thinking.

    ¡°I don¡¯t remember inviting more yers to this game,¡± he drawls.

    ¡°We invited ourselves.¡± I grin tightly. ¡°Kind of like you didst night.¡±

    The other yers shift in their chairs, hands drifting beneath the table where their hardware waits.

    Amateur hour. If they were any good with those guns, they wouldn¡¯t telegraph their moves like scared children.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talkin¡¯ about, man,¡± Drew says, but there¡¯s a tremor in his voice that betrays him.

    So I show him what I mean.

    I m my hands on the table and flip it, sending cards and chips and drinks flying everywhere. The men jump back, falling over themselves in surprise.

    One fumbles for his gun, but before he can get a grip on it, I¡¯ve fired a warning shot.

    Into his head.

    The sound echoes off the walls as he drops, painting the floor sticky red.

    ¡°Anyone else feeling brave?¡± I survey the room. ¡°I¡¯m willing to stake my life on who the best shot in this room is.¡±

    The smile has been wiped clean off Drew¡¯s face. ¡°Whatever you want with me?¡ª¡±

    ¡°I want nothing to do with you,¡± I interrupt, stepping over the dead body. ¡°You¡¯re the one who decided to y with fire by attacking mest night.¡±

    ¡°That wasn¡¯t me,¡± he stammers. ¡°You¡¯ve got it wrong?¡ª¡±

    I grab his shirt, yanking him close enough to smell his fear. ¡°The patch on your jacket says otherwise. Want to try again?¡±

    Suddenly, his expression shifts. His upper lip curls. ¡°You don¡¯t understand what you¡¯re walking into,¡± he spits. ¡°Old Gordy upstairs has already called for backup. You really think you can take on twenty guys?¡±

    Behind me, Artem checks his watch. Our window is shrinking.

    ¡°I think,¡± I say, tightening my grip until Drew whimpers, ¡°that you should be more worried about what I can do to you in the next thirty seconds.¡±

    A bead of sweat trickles down his face. ¡°What do you want?¡±

    ¡°The Martineks. Are they running this show?¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    Bullshit. Too quick. Too clean.

    ¡°So you just decided to y road warrior for fun?¡±

    ¡°You can¡¯t prove I was there,¡± he sneers, finding his spine now that he can hear engines revving outside. ¡°Maybe someone borrowed my colors. Maybe?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Doesn¡¯t mean you¡¯re innocent.¡±

    But he¡¯s right. I never actually saw him. No one did.

    And if this asshole really dated Sutton, she¡¯d recognize his mark, wouldn¡¯t she?

    ¡°You¡¯re far from innocent yourself, aren¡¯t you?¡± He lifts his chin.

    I could kill him where he stands and call it a day. It would satisfy the itch I have to remove him from Sutton¡¯s life permanently.

    At the thought, I almost want tough.

    She kissed me in front of my ex out of jealousy and here I am, thinking about killing hers. Talk about rapid esction.

    ¡°Consider this a warning.¡± I shove Drew back until he rocks on his heels. ¡°You and your bossese for me a second time and there¡¯ll be hell to pay.¡±

    I turn towards Artem, who is already taking aim at the padlock on the back door. He shoots it twice, the metal shattering to pieces.

    ¡°Is this really about the Martineks?¡± Drew calls after me, braver now that there¡¯s space between us. ¡°Or is this about Sutton?¡±

    The sound of her name in his mouth makes the hair on the back of my neck rise. Rage I can¡¯t leash down growls deep in my chest as I turn to him.

    His grin twists, crooked and scious. ¡°Believe me when I say she isn¡¯t worth the drama.¡±

    Artem grabs my shoulder, trying to haul me out. ¡°We gotta go, O.¡±

    I ignore him. ¡°I don¡¯t need your advice.¡±

    ¡°But that¡¯s the upside of sloppy seconds.¡± He shrugs happily. ¡°You can benefit from my experience. Once you¡¯ve fucked her a couple times, she loses her appeal.¡±

    I tear out of Artem¡¯s grip and cross the room in three paces. My fist connects with his face, cartge crunching beneath my knuckles before he can even drop his smarmy smile. Blood sprays as he staggers back, howling.

    Footsteps thunder behind us and Artem curses. ¡°Oleg! Let¡¯s go, goddammit!¡±

    I hate that I don¡¯t have time to admire my handiwork, but we have to go.

    I spit at Drew¡¯s feet. ¡°Next time, it¡¯ll be a bullet instead.¡±

    We crash through the back door just as the cavalry arrives, their shouts echoing behind us. Artem and I sprint around the corner where he parked the Range Rover and leap inside.

    We squeal away from the curb, leaving acrid, burnt rubber in our wake.

    ¡°That was too fucking close.¡± Artem¡¯s knuckles are white on the steering wheel. ¡°Since when do you let dickheads like him bait you like that?¡±

    I flex my bruising hand. The pain feels good. Earned.

    ¡°Since never.¡±

    ¡°Exactly.¡± He takes a hard right, checking the mirrors. ¡°The minute he mentioned her name, you lost it.¡±

    Artem isn¡¯t wrong. I¡¯ve never lost control like that before.

    Not for anyone.

    But instead of admitting that, I bark out orders. ¡°Get surveince on him. I want to know every move he makes, every contact, every fucking sneeze. Something here isn¡¯t adding up.¡±

    ¡°You think?¡±

    ¡°I fucking know.¡±

    The rest of the ride passes in silence. By the time we pull up to my building, the sun is setting and my mind is a war zone of possibilities.

    None of them are good.

    The apartment feels empty when I walk in. For years, I lived in this silence, but now, I¡¯m used to music pumping through the speakers and the soft footfalls of Sutton¡¯s bare feet in the hallway.

    I grab the bottle of whiskey from the bar cart, pouring myself an all-too familiar ss, trying not to think about how quickly she¡¯s gotten under my skin.

    How hearing her name in Drew¡¯s bloody mouth made me want to tear his throat out.

    How the thought of her afraid in that limo makes my hands shake even now.

    The door opens just as I¡¯m contemting a second ss. Sutton walks in looking like she¡¯s seen a ghost. Her skin is pale, her eyes wide and haunted.

    ¡°Everything okay?¡± I ask, already moving toward her.

    She tries to smile but it doesn¡¯t reach her eyes. ¡°Fine. Just¡­ went to the grocery store.¡±

    I nce at her empty hands. ¡°What did you get?¡±

    She looks down at her palms as though she expects to find something there. ¡°I, um¡­ didn¡¯t find what I wanted.¡±

    I move towards her. ¡°Are you sure you¡¯re alright?¡±

    ¡°Of course.¡± Another fake smile. ¡°I¡¯ve just been a little distracted since yesterday.¡±

    I expect to be met with a barrage of questions about who the masked motorcyclists were, but she doesn¡¯t bring them up at all.

    What¡¯s going on inside her head?

    I step closer, drawn to her like gravity. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. I handled it. No more masked riders.¡±

    ¡°Are you hungry?¡± she asks, obviously changing the subject.

    I grab her arm, pulling her against me. ¡°Starving.¡±

    When I kiss her, she¡¯s stiff at first, like she¡¯s fighting something inside herself. But when I hold her jaw, opening her mouth to me, she melts with a sigh.

    I lift her, carrying her toward the bedroom, trying to convince myself that this is enough.

    That I don¡¯t need to know what¡¯s hiding behind her eyes.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 29

    <h2 id="id__798_63_" ss="heading_s3gn">AN HOUR EARLIER</h2>

    I¡¯m standing in the frozen section, trying to decide between the low sugar ice cream or a pint of Death by Chocte.

    Considering I almost experienced death by assassination less than twenty-four hours ago, I think I¡¯m entitled to a full-fat, full-sugar treat.

    I¡¯m resigned to drowning my problems in Ben & Jerry¡¯s when something worse than death whispers in my ear.

    ¡°Miss me, sunshine?¡±

    I know that voice all too well.

    Drew fucking Anton.

    My ex materializes behind me like the ghost I can¡¯t shake, his heavy breathing tickling my skin. I whirl around to face him, my heart jackhammering against my ribs.

    He¡¯s got a ck hoodie pulled low over his white-blonde hair, but it doesn¡¯t hide the brutal purple-blue bruise blooming across the bridge of his nose.

    I take an instinctive step back, my spine hitting the cold ss of the freezer door. ¡°Absence really must make the heart grow fonder. Because every time I see your face, I remember I hate your guts.¡±

    He clicks his tongue, closing the distance between us. ¡°Now, now. Is that any way to talk to the man who¡¯s here to save your ass?¡±

    ¡°The only thing my ass needs saving from is this conversation.¡± I try to slip past him, but he blocks my path with his body. Same game, different day. Drew always did love ying cat and mouse.

    ¡°Does your new sugar daddy know you¡¯re out shopping alone, Sut?¡± His eyes flick to the store entrance. ¡°Well, almost alone. Uri¡¯s still ying watchdog in the parking lot, right?¡±

    The casual mention of Oleg¡¯s security detail makes my blood run cold. Drew¡¯s been watching me.

    Of course he has. Some habits die harder than others.

    ¡°What happened to your face?¡± I ask, deflecting. ¡°Karma finally catch up with you?¡±

    ¡°Wrong ce, wrong time.¡± He shrugs, but there¡¯s tension in his shoulders that wasn¡¯t there before. ¡°Speaking of wrong ces¡­ you¡¯re in deep shit, sunshine. Deeper than you know.¡±

    Given the shootoutst night, I think I know just fine the kind of shit I¡¯m in.

    But Drew doesn¡¯t need to know that.

    ¡°Thanks for the warning. I¡¯ll add it to my collection of things I never asked for from you.¡±

    ¡°Still got that smart mouth.¡± He reaches out, his fingers brushing my cheek. I jerk away like his touch burns. It does, in a way. It burns with memories I¡¯ve spent a year trying to forget. ¡°I always loved that about you. Even when it pissed me off.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± I snarl. ¡°Don¡¯t act like we¡¯re reminiscing about the good old days. There weren¡¯t any.¡±

    His eyes darken. His hand slides to my wrist, squeezing to sight he¡¯s in danger of cutting off my cirction. ¡°No? What about that night in Vegas? The one where you?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Finish that sentence and I¡¯ll scream so loud they¡¯ll hear me in Miami.¡±

    He hesitates, like he might call my bluff. Then he shrugs and rakes a hand through his hair. ¡°I¡¯m heading back to Vegas,¡± he says, switching tactics. ¡°Thought you might want to know, considering who I¡¯ll be working for.¡±

    My heart stops.

    Restarts.

    Stops again.

    Paul Lipovsky. The man who owns my sister¡¯s soul.

    ¡°Who would¡¯ve guessed you¡¯d go crawling back to Paul? I¡¯m not sure why you ever left. You were always his favorite pet.¡±

    Drew¡¯s eyes sh with a violence I remember well. ¡°You know why I left, Sut. You don¡¯t get to walk away from me so easily.¡±

    ¡°Except I did. And I will.¡± I dart forward to move past him, but he shoulder-checks me back against the freezer door.

    ¡°Walk away if you want, but I¡¯ll be seeing a lot of your sister.¡± He hisses the words against my neck. ¡°Might even be able to keep an eye on her. If you¡¯re interested.¡±

    It¡¯s a promise.

    It¡¯s a threat.

    And just like that, the bastard has me exactly where he wants me.

    I haven¡¯t heard from Sydney since the day she called to ask me about my engagement and I hung up on her. I¡¯ve been too busy to think too much about why she hasn¡¯t reached out again, but silence from her is never a good sign.

    Usually, it means she¡¯s going through it with Paul. I doubt this time is any different.

    ¡°Have you heard from her?¡± I can¡¯t quite stop myself from asking the question, and I hate myself for it when a smile spreads across Drew¡¯s face.

    That smile used to melt me. Now, I know better.

    It also doesn¡¯t hurt that the full effect is lost in the rapid swelling of his nose. Whoever decked him, I¡¯d like to shake their hand. I wish it had been me.

    Then he reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls out a small, ck phone. A burner. Old school. Untraceable, I¡¯m sure.

    ¡°Take this and I¡¯ll let you know.¡±

    I stare at the phone like it might bite me. It probably will, in the end.

    ¡°What¡¯s the catch?¡± I ask, because there¡¯s always a catch with Drew. Always strings attached, always a price to pay.

    He has the audacity to look wounded. ¡°Can¡¯t a guy do his ex a favor?¡±

    ¡°A guy? Sure. You? Never.¡±

    ¡°Maybe I¡¯ve changed.¡±

    ¡°And maybe I¡¯ll sprout wings and fly to the moon.¡±

    But my eyes keep drifting to the phone. To the lifeline it represents. To Sydney.

    Sweet, beautiful, disaster-ma Sydney.

    My sister, my protector, my constant source of worry.

    Drew is a lot of things¡ªmostly terrible¡ªbut he paid attention. He knows all of that. He knows Sydney is my weakness, and he knows that no matter how much I want to walk away from him and this offer¡­

    ¡­ I can¡¯t.

    ¡°If you¡¯re worried about your n to shake down the Beast, don¡¯t be. I won¡¯t tell¡ªas long as you share some of his millions with me.¡±

    I blink up to him, beyond confused. Mostly because I can¡¯t imagine anyone having the power to ¡°shake down¡± Oleg Pavlov.

    ¡°Excuse me?¡±

    ¡°Come on, Sut. The sexy photoshoot that ¡®leaked¡¯ to thepany chat, the shotgun engagement¡­ It adds up.¡±

    ¡°Not to me. I have no idea what you¡¯re talking about.¡±

    He rolls his eyes. ¡°Don¡¯t bother lying to me. I respect the hustle, babe. I mean, why else would you tie yourself to that scarred monster unless he¡¯s paying you boatloads?¡±

    Because he¡¯s ten times the man you¡¯ll ever be.

    As much as I want to throw those words in Drew¡¯s face, I don¡¯t. My loyalty to Oleg is just another thing he could use against meter.

    ¡°I don¡¯t need any help from you, Drew. Not now, not ever.¡±

    Drew dangles the phone between us. ¡°Last chance, sunshine. I¡¯m wheels up to Vegas tonight.¡±

    My hand twitches at my side. ¡°Why are you really doing this?¡±

    ¡°Because contrary to what you might think, I did care about you. Still do.¡± He steps closer, invading my space with the practiced ease of someone who used to own it. ¡°And maybe I don¡¯t like seeing Pavlov¡¯s hands all over what used to be mine.¡±

    The possessiveness in his voice makes my skin crawl. ¡°I was never yours.¡±

    ¡°Keep telling yourself that.¡± He presses the phone into my palm, his fingers lingering against my skin. ¡°But we both know different, don¡¯t we?¡±

    I snatch my hand back, but I keep the phone. Guilt sits heavy in my stomach like lead.

    Oleg would hate this. Hate that I¡¯m taking anything from Drew. Hate that I¡¯m keeping secrets.

    But Sydney¡­

    ¡°Weekly updates,¡± I demand, my voice hard. ¡°And if anything happens to her?¡ª¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll be the first to know.¡± He backs away, that infuriating smirk still ying on his lips. ¡°See you around, sunshine.¡±

    I watch him disappear down the aisle, the burner phone scorching a hole in my pocket. The weight of it feels like betrayal.

    I should¡¯ve bought the ice cream.

    All of it.

    Something tells me I¡¯m going to need it.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 30

    I¡¯m more than happy to ignore the five-foot-nothing blonde stalking me from behind the elliptical. The reason Ie to the Pavlov Industries gym at the same time every day is because no one else is ever here.

    Working out with the boss isn¡¯t rxing for them, I guess, so I get the ce to myself and don¡¯t have to talk to anyone, which is rxing for me.

    It¡¯s better than going back to the penthouse and enduring the silence there.

    I saved Sutton.

    I beat the shit out of Drew.

    I took care of the problem and everything should be better now¡­ but something is wrong with Sutton.

    If she was anyone else, I¡¯d be grateful for the break from her constant humming and chatter. Or I¡¯d torture answers out of her.

    But she isn¡¯t anyone else.

    I have to be patient and let here to me.

    Unfortunately, the only womaning to me is a petite blonde.

    She shifts closer, knocking into the dumbbell rack to her right. A twenty-pound weight plummets to the padded floor, but in the cavernous space, it sounds like a gunshot.

    ¡°If you¡¯re going to skulk,¡± I say without turning around, ¡°you should be quieter.¡±

    She emerges from her hiding spot, cheeks flushed pink. I recognize her immediately as one of the daycare workers. She¡¯s a friend of my¡­ fianc¨¦e. The word still feels strange, even in my head.

    She straightens her spine. ¡°Sorry about that, but I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time¡­ sir.¡±

    I towel off the sweat on my face and hang it around my neck. ¡°You¡¯re Sutton¡¯s friend.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m Mara Bettis. And¡­ I was. Until she went and got engaged to you without saying a word to me.¡± Her face darkens like a thundercloud. ¡°Now, I¡¯m questioning everything.¡±

    ¡°Sounds like something you can take up with Sutton.¡±

    Her scowl deepens. ¡°But I want to talk to you. In private.¡±

    I gesture to the empty gym around us. ¡°I couldn¡¯t find a ce more private than this.¡±

    She swallows hard. ¡°It smells like sweat in here. I¡¯d rather go outside.¡±

    Trantion: she doesn¡¯t want to be alone with me. Smart girl.

    My scars tend to have that effect on people, especially in close quarters. That,bined with what I¡¯m sure she¡¯s heard about my temperament, would make anyone think twice about a private conversation.

    ¡°Very well,¡± I say, grabbing my water bottle. ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡±

    She follows me through the back entrance of the gym and across the street. But the second we¡¯re off Pavlov Industries property, Mara takes the lead, steering us toward a bench between a water fountain and a patch of grass dotted with lounging readers.

    It¡¯s public, visible, full of witnesses.

    Whatever Mara wants to talk about, she¡¯s either very cautious or very scared.

    I drop myself as far from her as possible on the bench. ¡°You have my attention, Ms. Bettis. What can I do for you?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m worried about Sutton,¡± she says bluntly.

    ¡°What exactly are you worried about?¡±

    She throws me a sideways nce. ¡°Well, for one, she went into a supposed ¡®business meeting¡¯ with you and came out engaged instead.¡±

    I shrug, letting a hint of danger creep into my smile. ¡°I¡¯d call that a sessful business meeting.¡±

    ¡°But for whom?¡± She shakes her head, eyes cast off to the middle distance. ¡°Sutton isn¡¯t impulsive. Not anymore. She¡¯s leery of powerful men like you.¡±

    ¡°You tter me.¡±

    She wrings her hands together, but her voice stays steady. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t feel that way if you knew her history the way I do. She¡¯d all but sworn off men before you came along.¡±

    ¡°Guess she was just waiting for Mr. Right.¡±

    ¡°Are you ckmailing her or something?¡± She turns to face me, eyes narrowed on my face, searching.

    ¡°You know I¡¯m your boss, don¡¯t you?¡±

    She crosses her arms, chin lifting. ¡°I¡¯m scarily aware of that, yes. But I care too much about my friend to stay quiet. Even if you can fire me and kick my ass to the curb.¡±

    I level her with a re, expecting her to flinch back like so many others before her. Instead, she meets me head on, refusing to blink.

    ¡°I like you, Mara,¡± I say finally. ¡°You¡¯re a good friend.¡±

    There¡¯s a beat of hesitation before: ¡°Does that mean I get to keep my job?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°Nothing I say can change your mind?¡±

    I wave her on with a sigh. ¡°Say what you came to say.¡±

    ¡°Are you ckmailing my friend?¡± she asks again.

    ¡°No, I¡¯m not ckmailing Sutton. Nor am I threatening her.¡±

    Confusion etches lines around Mara¡¯s mouth. ¡°But she agreed to marry aplete stranger. Why would she do that?¡±

    ¡°If she¡¯s such a close friend, you can ask her.¡±

    ¡°I have,¡± she bites out like I¡¯m an idiot. ¡°She just tells me it¡¯splicated and she needed to do this. A bunch of vague shit like that.¡±

    ¡°And you want me to clear things up for you?¡±

    She sighs, and for the first time, I see real fear crack through her brave facade. ¡°I came to you because I think she¡¯s scared.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t fucking threaten her,¡± I growl.

    But Mara is already shaking her head. ¡°Not of you¡ªsomething else. Someone else.¡±

    The possessive beast that lives in my chest stirs awake. ¡°You know who it is. Tell me.¡±

    ¡°Drew Anton.¡± That fucking name again. Always that fucking name. ¡°Her ex-boyfriend.¡±

    ¡°He isn¡¯t a problem,¡± I say carefully, watching her reaction. ¡°Sutton hasn¡¯t had any contact with him in a long time.¡±

    Mara¡¯s frown deepens into trenches. ¡°So, she hasn¡¯t told you?¡±

    My beast bares its teeth. ¡°Told me what?¡±

    ¡°That he¡¯s basically been stalking her the past several months? He¡¯s obsessed with her. Every time she blocks him, he calls from another number. Every time she gets a new number, he manages to find it. The guy just won¡¯t give up.¡±

    I don¡¯t even pretend to be unaffected now. My voicees out in a lethal rumble. ¡°Do you have any reason to think he¡¯s still following her?¡±

    Mara nces toward the water fountain, picking at her cuticles like she¡¯s trying to dig out courage. ¡°Sutton drives a shitty little Ford.¡±

    ¡°Drove a shitty little Ford.¡±

    She waves me off. ¡°Right, yeah, well before she moved in with you, she gave me the keys and told me I could use it whenever. But the woman hadn¡¯t put oil in the damn thing in a decade, so I took it in, and¡­ the mechanic found something.¡±

    She pulls something out of her jacket pocket and unfurls her fist so I¡¯m staring down at the shattered remains of a microchip.

    ¡°That¡¯s a tracker.¡±

    Mara nods. ¡°The mechanic told me it has been there for a while. He said there was rust around the seal. I think Drew nted it.¡±

    I take the destroyed chip from her palm, the weight of it nothingpared to the rage building in my chest.

    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you tell Sutton yourself? Whye to me?¡±

    ¡°Because she has a lot on her te right now.¡± She shoots me an usatory re and then drags a hand through her short hair with a sigh. ¡°Life hasn¡¯t been easy for her, and I don¡¯t want to give her one more thing to worry about.¡±

    I pocket the tracker and shove to my feet. ¡°Thanks for this.¡±

    ¡°What are you going to do?¡± Mara asks.

    Make Drew Anton regret ever hearing Sutton¡¯s name.

    ¡°You¡¯re a good friend,¡± I say instead. ¡°Reach out. Sutton would be happy to hear from you.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s allowed?¡± There¡¯s venom in her voice again. She¡¯s really pushing the limit on my promise to not fire her.

    ¡°I won¡¯t stop you.¡±

    She rises, five feet of righteous fury. Her re could melt steel. ¡°Sutton¡¯s been put in a cage before, Oleg. She didn¡¯t care for it. Even if she epts certain things now, she won¡¯t always.¡±

    ¡°Are you trying to tell me something, Mara?¡±

    She sniffs. ¡°You might be able to offer her a bigger, brighter, shinier cage¡ªbut at the end of the day, it¡¯s still a cage.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve clearly made up your mind about me.¡±

    Her jaw clenches. ¡°Prove me wrong then.¡±

    If only I could¡­

    She throws me a backward nce as she crosses the road and gs down a cab. I wait until she¡¯s safely inside before pulling out my phone.

    Artem picks up on the first ring. ¡°What¡¯s up?¡±

    ¡°Find me an expert technician who specializes in bug sweeping. ASAP.¡±

    He whistles. ¡°By the tone of your voice, someone is dead.¡±

    I stare at the pocket where the tracker sits, imagining all the ways Drew Anton has been watching, following, hunting.

    The beast in my chest wants blood.

    ¡°Someone¡¯s been keeping tabs on Sutton. I want to know why.¡±

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 31

    My morning ovtion test shows a beaming smiley face.

    Another month, another chance to get knocked up by Palm Beach¡¯s most eligible monster.

    Except said monster is ¡°workingte.¡±

    Again.

    I stare at Oleg¡¯s text, fighting the urge to send him a photo of the positive test along with something crude like, ¡°Your sperm is cordially invited to a party in my uterus.¡±

    But he¡¯d probably just send back one of his signature grunt-texts. A simple ¡°k¡± designed to remind me that this is all business.

    My phone buzzes and my stupid heart leaps, but it¡¯s not Oleg. It¡¯s not even Sydney, who¡¯s still ghosting me hard.

    No, it¡¯s my future mother-inw,ing in hot with her special brand of passive-aggressive wisdom.

    OKSANA: Good evening, Sutton. I send along the details of Marcia Rui. She¡¯s an excellent stylist. I¡¯m sure she¡¯ll be able to work wonders on you.

    Which is Bitchy MIL speak for, Your tits were showing at my fancy party and I¡¯d rather gouge out my eyes than let you embarrass the family name again.

    I contemte sending back the middle finger emoji. It would be worth it just to imagine her perfectly Botoxed face contorting in horror.

    But I¡¯m not that socially inept.

    Yet.

    Give me another month or two of this horny solitary confinement and that could change.

    SUTTON: Thank you. I¡¯ll keep her in mind for future events.

    I pause, then decide to go for broke. Maybe if I can¡¯t win her over with sideboob, I can do it the old-fashioned way¡ªthrough her son¡¯s stomach.

    SUTTON: Quick question. What was Oleg¡¯s favorite meal growing up? I¡¯d like to make him something special for dinner.

    An hour passes. I start browsing Pinterest for ¡°romantic dinners that say ¡®please knock me up¡¯¡± when her reply finallyes through.

    OKSANA: I don¡¯t have a clue. You¡¯d have to talk to his nanny.

    Rich people, I swear to God.

    She follows with a phone number, which I now don¡¯t have a choice about using. Oksana is going to ask Oleg about whether his peasant of a fianc¨¦e made him his favorite dish.

    She may already hate me, but let her never say Ick follow-through.

    I take a deep breath and dial, praying I¡¯m not about to get myself into something I can¡¯t handle.

    Story of my life.<hr>

    Mrs. Henrietta Josefs waddles out of the elevators and into Oleg¡¯s penthouse an hourter like she¡¯s been waiting her whole retired life for this moment. She¡¯s wide-eyed at the luxury and the high ceilings, but then she sees me and beams.

    ¡°I saw the announcement in the paper, but real life is even better. Ollie chose such a lovely young woman!¡±

    Her voice is warm honey and chocte chip cookies, like a fairy godmother who traded her wand for a Le Creuset Dutch oven. She pulls me into a soft hug and I understand all at once why Oleg isn¡¯t the same kind of soulless elite his mother is.

    It¡¯s because of this woman.

    But another part of me is still stuck on the reveal that the Beast of Palm Beach, terror of the boardroom and yacht clubs alike, was once called Ollie.

    Actual tears brim in her eyes when she pulls back, admiring me again. ¡°I¡¯m so happy you called.¡±

    She barely even knows who I am, but I can tell she means it.

    I grin shyly. ¡°I¡¯m d I wasn¡¯t bothering you.¡±

    She looks horrified at even the suggestion and bustles into the kitchen. She may be old, but she¡¯s fast. I¡¯m huffing trying to keep up with her as she fishes ingredients out of her tote bag and gets to work.

    ¡°I called for help with the pelmeni, but this is all a ruse to find out what Ollie was like as a kid,¡± I exin.

    I immediately cringe like he can hear me.

    Yeah, no. I¡¯ll never be calling him that again.

    ¡°So sweet! So caring!¡± She measures flour with the precision of a pharmacist, and I bite back augh. ¡°Let¡¯s see¡­ What was he like? He took such great care of his sister. He was so protective of¡ª¡± Her voice cracks and she hides it by clearing her throat. ¡°¡ªOriana.¡±

    Her hands, so sure a second ago, tremble as she reaches for a measuring cup. No part of me wants tough at that.

    ¡°Mrs. Josefs¡­¡±

    ¡°Nanna. Call me Nanna. The children always did.¡± She dabs at her eyes with her apron. ¡°Oh, look at me. Haven¡¯t even been here ten minutes and I¡¯m blubbering. You must think I¡¯m a silly old woman.¡±

    ¡°No, you¡¯re not. You loved the children you took care of. That¡¯s beautiful.¡±

    She squeezes my hand with flour-dusted fingers. ¡°I retired when Ollie and Oriana were twelve. They didn¡¯t really need me anymore. But I always kept in touch with the family. When I heard about Miss Oriana¡­¡± She chokes on the words.

    I want to know everything. But the grief in her eyes stops me.

    I¡¯m not going to press on old wounds just to satisfy my own curiosity.

    So I change the subject again. ¡°Thank you foring to help me, Nanna. I couldn¡¯t be more grateful.¡±

    She pats my cheek, leaving a dusty handprint. ¡°Of course, dear. I¡¯m just d I could see one of my kids settled and happy. Ollie deserves that.¡±

    One of her kids. Not Oksana¡¯s son. Not the Beast. Just¡­ Ollie.

    The image of young Oleg, before the scars and the reputation, is bewildering. What happened to that boy? Where did he go?

    ¡°These pelmeni,¡± Nanna exins as she shows me how to fold the dough around the meat filling, ¡°were his absolute favorite. He¡¯d beg for them two, three times a week.¡± Her fingers move with practiced grace, creating perfect little dumplings while mine look like they¡¯ve been mangled by a drunk toddler. ¡°Make these for him, my dear, and he¡¯ll never let you go.¡±

    Iugh, but something twists in my chest. A foreign ache.

    Like homesickness for a ce I¡¯ve never been.

    The hours slip by in a haze of flour and stories. Stories about a boy who loved sailing and his twin sister who¡¯d have followed him to the ends of the earth and beyond.

    A boy who¡¯d sneak extra dumplings to the kitchen staff when his mother wasn¡¯t looking.

    A boy who became a beast, though Nanna doesn¡¯t talk about that part.

    By the time we finish, the apartment smells like heaven and childhood memories I never had. The dumplings float in their savory broth, tiny clouds of deliciousness.

    ¡°He¡¯s going to love them. Thank you, Nanna.¡±

    ¡°The pleasure is mine, dear. Call me if you need anything at all.¡± She grabs her purse, ready to waddle back to her retirement of game shows and grandchildren.

    ¡°You¡¯re leaving?¡±

    ¡°Oh, yes. I¡¯ve been so happy to cook for Ollie again and meet his bride, but I don¡¯t want to get in the way of young love.¡±

    Young love. That¡¯s what this must look like. The perfectly set table. The hours spent learning his favorite childhood dish. The way I keep checking my phone, hoping to see his name.

    I sink into a chair, staring at my evening¡¯s work through new eyes.

    When did I be this girl? This woman who waits by the phone, who learns to cook Russian dumplings, who gives a shit about what makes a rich, powerful man tick?

    I¡¯ve dated before. Had flings. Rtionships that looked good on paper but felt like wearing someone else¡¯s shoes.

    But this¡­ this is different.

    He is different.

    And that terrifies me more than any beast ever could.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 32

    My hands shake as I shove a batch of brownies in the oven.

    Pathetic.

    I¡¯m pathetic.

    This thing between us was supposed to be simple. I signed a deal that explicitly required that. The fine print said nothing about making his favorite childhood dish like some 1950s housewife desperate to please her man.

    And yet¡­

    My fingers are raw from crimping edges and my lower back aches from standing at the marble counter. I now have a really good idea why Nanna retired early. If a kid was requesting this kind of meal from me two or three times per week, I¡¯d need a break, too.

    But Oleg didn¡¯t even request this from me!

    I chose this.

    His mother never cooked for him once in her life, but I¡¯m really shing my blue cor roots for this one. Oksana is probably going tough about this with all of her friends.

    Maybe Oleg, too.

    I¡¯m probably embarrassing myself¡ªnot that I should care what any of them think.

    But fuck me¡­ I do. I really do.

    Because Oleg Pavlov isn¡¯t just my contracted baby-daddy-to-be anymore. He¡¯s be an infection in my bloodstream, a fever I can¡¯t break. When I close my eyes at night, I see his face¡ªnot the careful mask he shows the world, but the rare, unguarded moments when something real slips through.

    The elevator pings and my heart stutters.

    He appears in the kitchen doorway like a storm front rolling in. His scarred face is cast in shadow, but I catch the sh of gold in his eyes as they lock onto the spreadid out on the counter.

    ¡°You¡¯re home early,¡± I manage, proud that my voice stays steady even as heat scalds my cheeks.

    I grip the edge of the counter, needing the anchor. All of this feels silly all of a sudden.

    What am I doing, trying to y house with Oleg Pavlov?

    He moves closer, prowling really, and I catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with winter air. ¡°Disappointed?¡±

    ¡°Surprised,¡± I correct, forcing myself to meet his gaze. ¡°Pleasantly surprised.¡±

    His eyes rove over the stove, taking in the pot still gently steaming, the neat rows of dumplings waiting to be served. Something flickers across his face too quickly to catch.

    ¡°I cooked,¡± I blurt, too nervous to stay quiet. ¡°For us. Pelmeni.¡±

    The shock washes over him. He circles the ind, double-checking like he doesn¡¯t believe me. ¡°How did you¡­?¡±

    ¡°Nanna helped me make them. Your mother gave me her number when I asked about your favorite foods.¡±

    The silence grows between us, thick and heavy. I can see the muscles in his jaw working, the tremor in his hands as he reaches for the serving spoon.

    The first bite seems to physically rock him¡ªhis eyes close, throat working as he swallows.

    ¡°Jesus,¡± he breathes. ¡°They taste just like¡­¡±

    He doesn¡¯t finish the sentence, but he doesn¡¯t need to.

    They taste like when he was a kid.

    When he was a protective big brother to Oriana.

    When he was Ollie, not Oleg.

    I see it in the way his shoulders have softened, the ghost of memory smoothing the hard lines of his face.

    I¡¯ve identally breached some carefully constructed wall. I should probably be scared, but watching this mountain of a man brought low by a simple dumpling, knowing I put this look on his face¡­

    It does something to me.

    My heart is a hummingbird in my chest as I turn away, pretending to fuss with the brownies in the oven, giving him space to process whatever emotions are warring behind those gold eyes.

    But his hand catches my wrist, spinning me back to face him.

    ¡°How?¡± The wordes out rough, almost angry.

    ¡°I told you. Nanna helped?¡ª¡±

    ¡°No. Better question.¡± He tugs me closer, until I have to tip my head back to meet his gaze. ¡°Why?¡±

    I¡¯m not sure I¡¯m ready to answer that honestly, even to myself.

    Especially not with him looking at me like that.

    ¡°Because¡­¡± I lick my lips, searching for an answer that won¡¯t give too much away. ¡°Because everyone deserves to taste home sometimes.¡±

    Hunger res in his eyes, but not just for food. His free handes up to cup my face, thumb brushing over my bottom lip. The touch sends electricity arcing through my body.

    ¡°You contacted my mother.¡± Not a question. ¡°Asked for Nanna¡¯s number. Spent hours learning to make these perfectly.¡±

    Each statement brings him closer, until I¡¯m trapped between his body and the counter. The heat rolling off him makes my head swim.

    ¡°It wasn¡¯t a big deal,¡± I try to deflect, but my voicees out breathy, wanting. ¡°Your mother actually texted me first, about my apparently tragic fashion sense?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Sutton.¡± My name is a growl that vibrates through his chest where it¡¯s pressed against mine. ¡°Stop talking.¡±

    His mouth descends on mine, hungry and demanding. I taste longing on his tongue, need in the way his teeth scrape my bottom lip.

    My hands fist in his shirt as he lifts me onto the counter, spreading my thighs to make room for his hips.

    ¡°Is this what you wanted?¡± His lips drag across my throat as his hands push under my shirt, leaving heat traces skittering across my skin.

    Instead of answering, I arch into his touch.

    We both know I won¡¯t say it. Not tonight. Not when I can feel him hard against me, when his kisses feel like want and something dangerously close to tenderness.

    His hands brand my skin as he peels away my clothes, methodical despite the tremor I can feel in his fingers.

    Each newly exposed inch of flesh gets imed by his mouth, marked by teeth and tongue until I¡¯m writhing on the counter.

    ¡°Look at you,¡± he growls against my inner thigh. ¡°All flushed and pretty, spread out on my kitchen counter like a feast.¡±

    The words sear, burning me right along with all of our careful boundaries and practiced distance.

    Tonight, it¡¯s all going up in mes.

    He holds my hips down with his huge hands as he devours me, each stroke of his tongue deliberate and devastating.

    I¡¯m close to shattering when he pulls back, leaving me gasping. Through heavy-lidded eyes, I watch him strip off his shirt, revealing the map of scars that spreads across his right side.

    Usually, he keeps the lights low, angles himself to hide them.

    But tonight, he stands bare in the bright kitchen light, letting me see everything.

    It feels an awful lot like trust.

    I reach out carefully, pressing my hand to the scarred skin over his heart. Under my palm, it beats wild and strong.

    ¡°What are you thinking, princess?¡±

    The name has a softer edge this time. Before he can take it back or brush it off, I lean forward and press my lips to thergest scar, just below his corbone.

    His whole body goes rigid.

    ¡°Sutton¡­¡±

    Is he telling me to stop?

    Or asking for more?

    I don¡¯t wait to find out.

    I just trace the raised flesh with my tongue, following its path down his chest. His hands tangle in my hair but don¡¯t pull me away.

    When I reach the waistband of his pants, I look up through myshes to find him watching me with an intensity that steals my breath.

    My fingers work at his belt as I whisper, ¡°I want to taste you, too.¡±

    A sound like pain tears from his throat as he hauls me up into a crushing kiss. ¡°Next time,¡± he growls, then drives into me in one powerful thrust that has stars bursting behind my eyes.

    We¡¯re both too far gone for finesse. He takes me hard and deep, each snap of his hips pushing me higher.

    My nails rake down his back as pleasure builds, threatening to overwhelm. When his thumb finds my clit, I shatter with a cry that echoes off the kitchen walls.

    He follows soon after, face buried in my neck as he pulses inside me.

    For a long moment, we stay tangled together, hearts racing, skin cooling.

    Then I smell the smoke.

    ¡°The brownies!¡± I scramble off the counter, my legs still wobbly.

    ¡°Sutton, wait¡ª¡± Oleg reaches for me but I¡¯m already yanking open the oven door.

    A cloud of smoke billows out, setting off the rm. What were supposed to be fudgy chocte squares now resemble charcoal briquettes.

    I¡¯m fumbling for an oven mitt when Oleg wraps an arm around my middle and yanks me back. ¡°You¡¯re naked. Are you trying to get full body burns to match mine?¡±

    He whirls me behind him and, wading shirtless through the smoke, pulls the brownies out of the oven and dumps them in the sink, covering them with a pot lid to contain the smoke.

    ¡°Actually, I was trying to impress you with my domestic skills and I nearly burnt down your kitchen.¡±

    I drop my face into my hands, and a secondter, his armse around me.

    His bare skin is warm against mine, and he¡¯s shaking with what I realize is augh.

    Before I can be offended, he lifts me off the floor and carries me towards the hallway.

    ¡°I don¡¯t care about whether you can bake, Sutton.¡±

    ¡°No?¡± I lift my eyes to his as he carries me into his bedroom, dropping me on the bed. When he grabs one of my wrists and brings it to the headboard, I see that the cuffs from our first night together are still dangling there.

    As the metal mps down, Oleg drops his lips to my ear. ¡°You have other skills I admire way more.¡±

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 33

    My phone buzzes and I stare at Faye¡¯s message like it might bite. Brunch + pool?!? Bring the grump!

    Brunch.

    In an hour.

    Me and Oleg.

    The thought is terrifying. The outside world is terrifying.

    Oleg and I know how to exist together in his penthouse. Ever since I cooked him a dinner we never actually ate, we¡¯ve found a rhythm. One where we¡¯re both undressed within minutes of him walking through the door and food is something we consume out of necessity and, preferably, off of each other¡¯s bodies while we satisfy a different kind of appetite.

    We¡¯re safe in this bubble¡ªalone.

    But what are we when we walk outside? When other people can see?

    It probably doesn¡¯t even matter. Oleg is always busy with work. He isn¡¯t going to cancel the day¡¯s ns to do a silly little brunch and pool party with me and Faye¡¯s family. I¡¯ll go alone and?¡ª

    OLEG: Pick you up in fifteen?

    The message sends an electric current through my body that I refuse to acknowledge as hope.

    I¡¯ve gotten good at thattely: denial. Like when Oleg¡¯s hands found my waist in the hallwayst night, steadying me while he took me against the wall.

    Or when his eyes followed me when I padded across the floor to his bathroom, only for him to follow me a secondter and join me in the shower.

    Both times, I told myself that I feel nothing.

    That this is temporary.

    That I don¡¯t need it.

    And I don¡¯t. I don¡¯t care if hees or not. What does it matter to me?

    SUTTON: You¡¯reing to Faye¡¯s?

    OLEG: I was invited.

    I respond with a thumbs up because it¡¯s all I can manage with my shaky hands.

    I throw open my closet and tear through my oversized, neutral wardrobe. Everything I own makes me look like a preschool teacher having an existential crisis.

    Then I find my denim cutoffs buried in the bottom of a drawer and a cropped beige sweater that hits just above my navel. I pull them on over the hot pink string bikini Sydney bought for me after ourst trip to the beach. Apparently, my one-piece was ¡°a crime against curves and camel toes everywhere.¡±

    I swore I¡¯d never wear it, but¡­

    No more hiding.

    Oleg texts that he¡¯s downstairs, and I give him another thumbs up.

    Cool. Casual. Like my heart isn¡¯t doing jumping jacks in my chest.

    Oleg is waiting in a gleaming red Porsche SUV. The window slides down, and he peers at me over designer sunsses, looking like every bad choice I¡¯ve ever wanted to make.

    ¡°Hey, you must be my Uber driver?¡± I quip, hoping my voice doesn¡¯t betray how dry my mouth suddenly is.

    He snorts, but I catch the way his eyes drag over my bare legs. ¡°I might be. Unfortunately, I don¡¯t take cash or card. You¡¯ll have to find another way to pay me.¡±

    He¡¯s teasing, but I slide into the passenger seat, already clocking the depth of the seat, curious if we can make something happen on the way. ¡°I¡¯m sure we can work something out.¡±

    Suddenly, his warm hand is on my knee, sliding along my thigh. ¡°We¡¯re going to have to when you show up wearing this. I only get to see this much skin after I dig throughyers of fabric first.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t like my sweats?¡± I feign shock, even as his hands on me threaten to short-circuit my brain.

    ¡°You deserve more than sweats, princess.¡± His voice drops an octave. ¡°Although I understand where it¡¯sing from.¡±

    ¡°Enlighten me,¡± I say, forgetting about my seatbelt. ¡°Where¡¯s iting from?¡±

    He doesn¡¯t sugar-coat it. ¡°You¡¯re trying not to be noticed. By people in general, but especially by men. You¡¯ve gotten used to hiding behind baggy clothes because you think you¡¯ll be safer that way.¡±

    The observation stings because it¡¯s true. Because in the weeks I¡¯ve known him, he¡¯s seen straight through every wall I¡¯ve built.

    ¡°That¡¯s not true,¡± I lie, but my voice wavers.

    He gives me a look that¡¯s equal parts understanding and challenge. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen a woman like you so intent on hiding her assets rather than showing them off.¡± His eyes soften. ¡°You realize women go under the knife to get¡ª¡± He gestures at me with both hands, encapsting every blushing bit of me.

    ¡°Aren¡¯t we supposed to be going somewhere?¡± I cut him off, staring straight ahead.

    ¡°Sure, we are.¡± He dangles a fancy silver key fob in front of me. ¡°Just as soon as you take the wheel.¡±

    ¡°You want me to drive?¡±

    ¡°Why not? It¡¯s your car.¡±

    My heart stops. Literally stops. ¡°My what?¡±

    He nods,pletely serious. ¡°You need your own vehicle. Something safe. Something that can protect you.¡± His jaw tightens. ¡°I don¡¯t like the idea of you being dependent on drivers, especially after what happened with Drew following you. You need to be able to get wherever you need to go.¡±

    The mention of my ex should kill the moment, but instead, it only highlights how different Oleg is.

    Drew used my dependence on him like an anchor.

    Oleg¡¯s trying to give me wings.

    I run my fingers over the butter-soft leather seat. ¡°This is too much.¡±

    ¡°This isn¡¯t about money.¡± He catches my chin, turns my face toward his. ¡°This is about knowing you cane and go as you please. That you¡¯re safe. That you have control.¡±

    Something warm blooms in my chest, expanding and stretching to the tips of my toes.

    ¡°Take the keys, princess.¡± His voice is rough. ¡°Let me do this for you.¡±

    A million things I can¡¯t say bubble up, and I swallow them down. Gently, I take the keys from him and get out of the car.

    I practically skip around to the driver¡¯s side, suddenly unable to contain my grin.

    The leather is warm from his body and it cradles me as I slide behind the wheel. Everything gleams¡ªthe dash, the console, the chrome detailing.

    ¡°This is incredible,¡± I breathe, running my hands over the steering wheel. ¡°I¡¯ve never driven anything this nice.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s because you¡¯ve never been my fianc¨¦e before. My fianc¨¦e deserves only the best.¡± He programs the GPS while I familiarize myself with the controls, trying to tamp down the hope buzzing in my bones.

    He cares¡ªabout my safety and my happiness. Maybe even about me?

    I start the engine, and it purrs to life like a satisfied cat. ¡°Thank you, Oleg. Really. This is the most thoughtful thing anyone¡¯s ever done for me.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t thank me. It¡¯s a necessary part of our little pantomime.¡±

    Just like that, the warm bubble of happiness around me pops, letting in the cold reality I¡¯ve been trying so hard to ignore.

    None of this is real.

    The car, the engagement, the way he seems to understand exactly what I need¡ªit¡¯s all just an borate show. Method acting at its finest.

    ¡°Is that what we¡¯re doing?¡± My voicees out steady even as my hands tighten on the wheel. ¡°ying pretend?¡±

    ¡°And we¡¯re doing a damn good job.¡±

    Simple.

    Direct.

    Like a knife between the ribs.

    I pull out onto the street, focusing on the feel of the powerful engine beneath me instead of the ache in my chest. ¡°You¡¯ll have to give me directions.¡±

    He taps the screen, and a familiar blue line appears. ¡°Just follow the route. Should be there in about fifteen minutes.¡±

    Fifteen minutes to get my head straight and my heart under control.

    Fifteen minutes to remember that this is business, not pleasure.

    That he¡¯s my employer, not my fairy tale prince.

    But as I navigate through traffic, hyper-aware of his presence beside me, all I can think is how cruel it is that he¡¯s given me exactly what I needed¡ªfreedom, security, independence¡ªwhile simultaneously reminding me that none of it is real.

    I¡¯m halfway through a left turn when a sports cares screaming through the intersection, blowing past their red light.

    My heart stops. Time slows. I freeze.

    But Oleg doesn¡¯t.

    His hand shoots out, grabs the wheel, and yanks us back into ourne as the car sts past, missing us by inches. The re of their horn is deafening.

    ¡°Pull over. Now.¡±

    I¡¯m shaking so hard it¡¯s a miracle I can even guide the SUV to the curb. As soon as we¡¯re stopped, Oleg is out of his seat, leaning across me to throw the car in park.

    ¡°Are you okay?¡± His hands frame my face, tilting it up to his. His eyes burn gold with fury and something else. Something that looks terrifyingly like fear. ¡°Sutton. Talk to me.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡± My voicees out whisper-soft. ¡°I wasn¡¯t paying attention.¡±

    ¡°That piece of shit could have killed you.¡± His thumb traces my cheekbone, and for a moment, just a moment, the mask slips. Raw emotion shes across his face before he catches himself and pulls back. ¡°Maybe this wasn¡¯t such a good idea.¡±

    I grab his wrist before he can retreatpletely. ¡°Please. I want to drive. I need to drive.¡±

    He studies me for a long moment, jaw clenched. ¡°Fine. But we¡¯re finding a quieter route.¡±

    I nod, trying to ignore how cold I feel now that he¡¯s no longer touching me. How empty the space between us seems.

    ¡°You¡¯re sure you¡¯re okay?¡± he asks again, softer this time.

    ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡± I force a smile. ¡°Just your average near-death experience. No big deal.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± he snaps. ¡°Don¡¯t joke about that. Not about your safety. Not ever.¡±

    The intensity in his words steals my breath. For a second, I let myself believe it¡¯s because he cares. Because I matter to him as more than just a means to an end.

    Even if I know better than that.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 34

    The afternoon feels like a movie.

    It¡¯s a montage of a perfect afternoon by the pool. Artem and Olegpete to see who can make the biggest ssh while the kids giggle and cheer. Faye watches her husband with such obvious love that it makes me feel like I¡¯m intruding even more than I already am.

    Because none of this is ever going to be mine. Not really.

    Even when I peel my sweater off and catch Oleg drinking in the sight of me in my bikini, it isn¡¯t with love.

    It¡¯s with lust.

    Temporary. Fleeting.

    It burns hot, but fast.

    And at this rate, it¡¯ll be gone well before I¡¯m ready for it to end.

    Faye squeezes me tightly as we¡¯re leaving, and I swear the smile on her face is pitying. Like she can see right through the happy, happy smile I¡¯ve painted on my face.

    ¡°We¡¯ll do this again,¡± she promises, squeezing my shoulder. ¡°We¡¯ll make this a regr thing.¡±

    I try to agree, but the lie gets stuck in my throat.

    They¡¯re not mine to keep. None of this is.

    We¡¯ve been in the car for a few minutes when Oleg¡¯s deep voice pulls me from my thoughts. ¡°Something on your mind?¡±

    I nce at Oleg in the driver¡¯s seat of my shiny new SUV, his powerful frame making the luxury vehicle feel suddenly small. Water droplets still cling to his broad shoulders, catching the sunlight like diamonds on bronze. His shirt hangs open just enough to reveal the brutal geometry of his chest, a deliberate tease that makes my mouth go dry.

    The bastard doesn¡¯t even have to try.

    While I squeezed myself into a scrap of fabric masquerading as a bikini to get his attention, all he has to do is leave a single button undone and I¡¯m fighting the urge to climb him like a tree.

    Life¡¯s funny that way.

    Not funny like ha-ha, but funny in the same way Child Services showing up at our door when I was a kid was funny.

    The kind of funny that leaves scars.

    ¡°Nope,¡± I lie, popping the ¡®p¡¯ like the emotional equivalent of bubblegum.

    ¡°You¡¯ve been quiet since we left Artem and Faye¡¯s.¡±

    I release a breath that feels too heavy for my lungs. ¡°Just thinking about families. How different they can be. I would have killed for a home like that growing up. Two parents who actually loved each other¡­ You can¡¯t put a price tag on that kind of normal.¡±

    ¡°Some people try to.¡±

    The implication is obvious: People like me. People who sign contracts promising babies in exchange for security. People who think they can buy their way into happiness, one desperate decision at a time.

    ¡°When Nanna was helping me cook,¡± I say, if only to change the subject, ¡°she made it sound like you and Oriana were really close.¡±

    The temperature in the car goes frigid. His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel, and I watch his walls m up like rocket ship st doors.

    ¡°We were kids. It was a long time ago.¡±

    I should take the hint. Let it go.

    But for some reason, this feels like a lifeline. Like, if I can tug on this thread, it could turn into a tether. Something to hold us together.

    ¡°But it made you who you are. Oriana and Elise, they were important. If you want to talk about them with me, then you?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t.¡±

    The single syble is cutting. Final.

    We pull up to his building, but instead of pulling into the lot, he parks out front and keeps the engine running.

    ¡°You¡¯re not staying?¡± I hate how small my voice sounds.

    ¡°I have work meetings.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s Saturday.¡±

    His lips curve into something dangerous. ¡°Evil never rests, princess.¡±

    I want to argue, want to crack open his armor and peek at the wounded boy beneath.

    But I¡¯ve already pushed too far today. So I nod and reach for the door handle, swallowing disappointment.

    ¡°I¡¯ll see youter then.¡± I¡¯m still ovting, and I want to tell him, if only so he¡¯ll have a contractual reason toe see me tonight.

    But I swallow that down, too.

    I start to slide out of the car when Oleg grabs my arm and pulls me back. Then his mouth is on mine, kissing me with deep, intense passion that can¡¯t possibly be fake.

    Who could fake this?

    I¡¯m breathless when he pulls away and cups the side of my face. ¡°People are watching, and I need every man nearby to know that you and this bikini belong to me.¡±

    I nce over my shoulder. He¡¯s right. We have witnesses.

    This is all part of the show.

    My legs are shaky as I slide out of the car and make my way inside. The elevator ride to the penthouse feels longer than usual, each floor a reminder of how far I¡¯ve climbed from my humble beginnings. And of how far I still have to go before I understand the man I¡¯m supposedly marrying.

    My phone rings as I unlock the door. Mara¡¯s face fills my screen, her smile bright enough to chase away some of my gloom.

    ¡°Finally!¡± she squeals. ¡°I was starting to think you¡¯d forgotten about little people like me now that you¡¯re engaged to Palm Beach royalty.¡±

    I hate that I¡¯ve been so distant from Mara since I moved in with Oleg. But honestly, it feels worse being around her all the time and having to lie to her face.

    I sink onto my pristine couch, guilt gnawing at my insides. ¡°I know, I know. I¡¯ve been a terrible friend.¡±

    ¡°You have not. Just a distant one. I figured getting engaged to a hot shot billionaire changed you.¡±

    ¡°God forbid. I¡¯m the same old awkward disaster I¡¯ve always been.¡±

    ¡°If that were true, you wouldn¡¯t have walked into a business meeting with your former boss and emerged with a ring on your finger,¡± Mara points out. ¡°The old Sutton would never have jumped into something so impulsive.¡±

    The truth of that stings.

    ¡°It¡¯splicated.¡±

    ¡°God, I¡¯m tired of hearing how everything is soplicated. I¡¯m not stupid. Give me the pieces and I¡¯ll put them together, babe.¡± She hesitates, clearly waiting for me to break. When I don¡¯t, she sighs. ¡°You told me everything about Drew. What makes this guy so different?¡±

    I drum my fingers on the back of my phone, wishing more than anything I could tell her the whole truth.

    But I settle on as much of the truth as I dare.

    ¡°He¡¯s not like anyone I¡¯ve ever met. He¡¯s got these walls up¡ªwe¡¯re talking titanium-grade defenses¡ªbut sometimes, I catch glimpses of who he really is underneath.¡±

    ¡°Ooh. And who is The Beast under all his ogre-likeyers?¡±

    I wish I knew.

    ¡°He¡¯s¡­¡± I shake my head. ¡°Today, I saw himugh, Mara. Really, actuallyugh.¡±

    ¡°I had no idea robots were capable,¡± she teases.

    ¡°I thought he was this emotionless monster when we met, but¡­¡±

    I take a slow perusal through thest three nights of Oleg¡¯s hands on my body, his raggedmands and breathy praise in my ear. The sh of raw heartache on his face when I said his sister¡¯s name. Elise¡¯s name.

    ¡°He has a heart, Mara. And I think it¡¯s broken.¡±

    ¡°Is this your way of telling me you¡¯re his rebound? ¡®Cause I¡¯ll castrate the man if he hurts you. I really will.¡±

    I almostugh, which, given the day I¡¯ve had, is a testament to Mara. ¡°No, it¡¯s not like that. It¡¯s¡ª His sister. She died. In the same fire that gave him his scars, but he won¡¯t talk about it.¡±

    ¡°Damn.¡± Mara¡¯s eyes go soft with sympathy. ¡°That¡¯s heavy.¡±

    ¡°Yeah. And I get it, I do. Some wounds never heal. But how am I supposed to build a life with someone who won¡¯t let me in?¡±

    ¡°Maybe he just needs time?¡±

    I think about the contract tucked away in my dresser drawer. Time isn¡¯t exactly on our side.

    ¡°You make it sound so real,¡± Mara remarks, studying me through the screen.

    My heartunches into my throat. ¡°What is that supposed to mean?¡±

    She can¡¯t know the truth. She doesn¡¯t know about the contract.

    ¡°Come on, Sut. Rich, damaged guy sweeps you off your feet after one meeting? I know you have a romantic heart under all those hoodies you wear, but it sounds like he shed some dor signs under your nose.¡±

    I gasp. ¡°Hey?¡ª¡±

    ¡°No offense, no offense!¡± she practically shrieks. ¡°Believe me, I get it, girl. It¡¯s tough out here in these minimum wage streets. You gotta do what you gotta do¡­ especially if what you ¡®gotta do¡¯ is a smoking hot billionaire. All I¡¯m saying is, no judgment.¡±

    ¡°I won¡¯t lie¡ªit¡¯s partly about money,¡± I admit. ¡°He can give me security and stability and the kind of life Sydney and I only ever dreamed of. But there¡¯s more to him than that. He has another side to him.¡±

    ¡°You ain¡¯t no gold-digger,¡± she deres with a quick head bob. ¡°Got it. But speaking of gold-diggers¡ªhow is Syd?¡±

    My stomach twists, both from the mention of my sister and the dangerously closeparison Mara just drew. Am I a golddigger?

    ¡°Radio silence. You know how she gets when she¡¯s¡­ dealing with stuff.¡±

    The burner phone Drew gave me has been burning a hole in the back of my mind since the night he cornered me. I shoved it in the back of one of my drawers and tried to forget about it. I should throw it away¡ªmelt it down, strap it to a rocket, and send it into orbit.

    But if I get rid of it, how will I know what¡¯s going on with my sister? She isn¡¯t taking my calls, so for now, Drew keeping his promise to give me weekly updates is my only hope of staying in touch with her.

    ¡°Dealing with stuff being code for ¡®letting some asshole treat her like garbage¡¯?¡±

    ¡°Pretty much.¡± I massage my temples. ¡°I¡¯ve tried calling, but¡­¡±

    ¡°But she won¡¯t pick up because she knows you¡¯ll tell her to leave him,¡± Mara finishes for me. We¡¯ve both been here with Syd enough times to know this tale by heart. ¡°Which she should, obviously.¡±

    ¡°Obviously,¡± I repeat. ¡°But getting engaged to Oleg doesn¡¯t exactly help my case. She thinks he¡¯s my sugar daddy.¡±

    Mara shrugs. ¡°I mean¡­¡±

    ¡°He isn¡¯t!¡± I insist. ¡°Oleg is nothing like Paul.¡±

    And I¡¯m nothing like Sydney.

    This isn¡¯t the Palmer family curse.

    It can¡¯t be.

    She catches my expression and smiles. ¡°I can tell by the way you look when you talk about him. Whatever¡¯s going on between you two, it¡¯s not what Sydney has with Paul.¡±

    No, what Oleg and I have is much moreplicated.

    A business arrangement wrapped in attraction, wrapped in secrets neither of us is willing to share.

    ¡°I should go,¡± I tell Mara. ¡°Got some wedding stuff to look at.¡±

    It¡¯s a lie, but she buys it. Thank God.

    After we hang up, I curl up on the obscenely expensive couch and stare at my phone. At thest message I sent Sydney, still unread after two weeks.

    The urge to grab that burner phone is almost overwhelming. But Drew¡¯s updatese with strings attached¡ªthey always do. And I promised myself I wouldn¡¯t be that girl anymore. Wouldn¡¯t follow the Palmer family tradition of trusting the wrong men.

    Yet here I am.

    Following him anyway.

    Some patterns are harder to break than others.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 35

    I squint at the seedy strip club through tinted windows as my fingers drum an impatient rhythm on the steering wheel.

    Uncle Boris practically lives here these days, conducting his ¡°business meetings¡± betweenp dances and overpriced champagne.

    What a fucking joke.

    ¡°Sure he¡¯ll show?¡± Artem slouches in the passenger seat, looking about as thrilled to be here as I am.

    ¡°It¡¯s Wednesday at noon. Prime time for married men to get their rocks off while their wives are at Ptes.¡± I track another insurance executive ducking through the front door, tie loosened and wedding ring conspicuously absent. ¡°Boris knows his clientele.¡±

    ¡°I still can¡¯t believe we¡¯re reduced to staking out a titty bar.¡± Artem checks his phone for the hundredth time. ¡°You¡¯ve got that board meeting at three.¡±

    ¡°Canceled it.¡± Two security breaches in forty-eight hours¡ªone in Palm Beach, another in Miami. The timing is too perfect to be coincidence. I can¡¯t afford any other distractions. ¡°This takes priority.¡±

    ¡°Your mother will be thrilled.¡±

    ¡°My mother can kiss my ass.¡±

    Though he¡¯s not wrong. Oksana Pavlova loves nothing more than to sharpen her ws at the biweekly board meetings. Denying her the fun will have her in a pissy mood, but it¡¯s worth it to figure out what game Boris is ying.

    My phone vibrates with a text from Sutton. I scan it quickly. Something about her spa day with Faye being cut short.

    I click out of it before I can fully read it, trying to ignore it, even as her name on my screen does things to my chest I¡¯d rather not examine.

    ¡°Speaking ofplicated women¡­¡± Artem is halfway across the center console, reading over my shoulder and waggling his eyebrows.

    ¡°Don¡¯t start.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m just saying, that contract of yours seems to be?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Working exactly as intended.¡± I cut him off with a growl. ¡°No confusion. No messy feelings. Just business.¡±

    ¡°Right. Because you always stare at your business partners like you want to bend them over the nearest t surface.¡±

    Of course he noticed. It¡¯s not as if I was subtle at the pool. Sutton pulled her sweater over her head and it¡¯s like my eyes were glued to her skin, tracing over all the ces I¡¯d tasted and touched her. The ces still left to explore.

    ¡°Fuck off.¡± But there¡¯s no real heat in it. Artem¡¯s known me too long to be intimidated by my bark. ¡°The physical attraction is a bonus. Makes the baby-making more efficient.¡±

    ¡°And after she¡¯s pregnant?¡±

    I grip the wheel tighter, something vicious percting in my gut at the thought of Sutton swollen with my child. ¡°What about it?¡±

    ¡°Wanting to fuck her might be more of a distraction when you don¡¯t need to get her pregnant. Is that when you¡¯ll finally admit you¡¯re doing it for fun or?¡ª?¡±

    ¡°Since when do you give a shit who I fuck? Is Faye putting you up to this?¡±

    Artem holds up his hands in mock surrender, but the suspicious smirk stays on his face. ¡°I¡¯m just looking out for you, boss. Someone has to, since you¡¯re too stubborn to look out for yourself.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m the only one looking out for anything,¡± I snap. ¡°I don¡¯t know why I bring you on stakeouts. You¡¯re just a fucking distraction.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m the damn entertainment!¡±

    I¡¯m saved from him noticing my amusement by movement at the club entrance. Boris emerges, silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, looking exactly like the sleazy bastard he is. His personal car glides up momentster.

    ¡°Should we be following him?¡± Artem asks as Boris is driven away.

    ¡°No. I want to see who will follow him out of that club.¡±

    Sure enough, three men in ck exit two minutester, wearing familiar emblems on their jackets.

    The same emblems we saw on the bikers who attacked my car.

    ¡°Well, well. Isn¡¯t that interesting.¡±

    Part of me actually wants to see Drew Anton among them, as if I need another reason to want to kill him.

    ¡°Blyat¡¯.¡± Artem mutters. ¡°You think he¡¯s working with them?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not a fucking coincidence, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re asking.¡±

    ¡°You think they¡¯re responsible for the attacks in Palm Beach and Miami?¡± Artem sounds as dubious about that as I am.

    ¡°No.¡± I shake my head. ¡°Not by themselves, anyway.¡±

    ¡°The Martineks,¡± Artem confirms what we¡¯re both thinking. ¡°Vol¡¯s intel was right.¡±

    ¡°And the Ristovs.¡± I memorize faces, movements, the way they scan their surroundings. Professional. Dangerous. ¡°Boris is building himself quite the army.¡±

    ¡°Why, though? What¡¯s his endgame?¡±

    ¡°Getting me out of the way, for starters.¡± I pull into traffic, maintaining a careful distance from Boris¡¯s BMW. ¡°Those security breaches? Both were reported by his teams. The one man that was killed in the attack in Miami was loyal to me.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s plotting something,¡± Artem breathes, pulling out his phone and tapping out a hasty message.

    I nod. ¡°And using the Martineks and Ristovs as his attack dogs while keeping his hands clean. If it works, he regains control. If it fails, he has convenient scapegoats.¡±

    ¡°Crafty old bastard.¡± Artem¡¯s tone carries grudging respect. ¡°Here I thought he was just a washed-up drunk.¡±

    ¡°Get eyes on him around the clock. I want to know every move he makes, every person he meets.¡± I switchnes, heading toward my penthouse. ¡°And arrange a sweep of my properties. Starting with the apartment.¡±

    He shes his phone at me. ¡°Already done. Debugger should be there in twenty.¡±

    I grunt approval. Artem¡¯s efficiency is why he¡¯s my right hand. That, and he¡¯s the only person besides my sister who never took my shit.

    ¡°The boatyard next,¡± I add. ¡°Every yacht in my fleet needs checking.¡±

    ¡°Expecting trouble on the water?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m expecting trouble everywhere.¡± The memory of motorcycles surrounding my car, Sutton¡¯s terrified face, shes unbidden. ¡°The home front has to be secure.¡±

    Artem¡¯s knowing look makes me want to punch him. ¡°The ¡®home front.¡¯ Right.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t start.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t say anything.¡±

    ¡°You were thinking it loud enough.¡±

    He grins, unrepentant. ¡°Can¡¯t help it if I¡¯m Team Sutton.¡±

    ¡°There are no fucking teams.¡± I park in my private garage, killing the engine with more force than necessary. ¡°And if you value your teeth, you¡¯ll keep it that way.¡±<hr>

    I scan the penthouse security feed before entering, a habit as natural as breathing. Everything looks clear, but these days, I trust nothing at face value.

    The debugger is wrapping up his methodical sweep of each room. He¡¯s a professional guy. Even as we pass in the hallway, he gives me a tight nod and keeps working, head down. He doesn¡¯t ask questions, which is just the way I like it.

    Once he¡¯s done, Artem and I head to my office.

    Artem sprawls in one of my office chairs, kicking his feet up on my desk. I shove them to the floor as I pass, ignoring the middle finger he shes my way.

    ¡°So what¡¯s the y with Boris?¡± he asks, watching me pace.

    ¡°He¡¯s given us no choice. If we don¡¯t strike first, he will.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re not exactly swimming in proof here.¡±

    ¡°No, we¡¯re not. That¡¯s the problem. We need someone on the inside.¡± I drop into my chair, mind already cycling through possibilities.

    ¡°You thinking of nting a mole? ¡®Cause nose fucking goes, man.¡± He taps the end of his nose. ¡°Faye is a grouchy pregnant woman and she¡¯ll kill me if I try to leave in her third trimester.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯d recognize you, dumbass.¡± I roll my eyes. ¡°Plus, we don¡¯t have the time and he¡¯s smart enough to be paranoid. He won¡¯t trust anyone new right now. What we need to do is find someone close enough to matter but weak enough to flip.¡±

    ¡°His inner circle¡¯s pretty tight.¡±

    ¡°Everyone has a price.¡± I learned that lesson young, watching my father¡¯s empire crumble from within. ¡°Boris treats his men like shit. One of them¡¯s bound to be holding a grudge.¡±

    ¡°Want me to do some digging?¡±

    ¡°Get them drunk. Get them talking.¡± I rub my temples, fighting the headache building behind my eyes. ¡°We need solid intel before making any moves.¡±

    ¡°And if we find what we¡¯re looking for?¡±

    ¡°Then we bury him,¡± I snarl. ¡°Before he can bury us.¡±

    ¡°Copy that.¡± Artem is already on his phone, doing what he does best.

    I push to my feet with a yawn. ¡°I¡¯m making coffee. Want anything?¡±

    ¡°Coffee with a shot of something a little stronger.¡±

    I arch a brow. ¡°It¡¯s not even noon.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s five o¡¯clock somewhere, brother.¡±

    I huff out augh as I leave, head filled with thoughts of bribes and snitches.

    I¡¯m so lost in thought I almost miss the sh of movement around the closest corner.

    Sutton.

    She¡¯s supposed to be at her spa day with Faye. It¡¯s the only reason I hadn¡¯t bothered closing my office door, the only reason I¡¯d been so loud with my ns.

    But she¡¯s here now.

    She stands frozen in the dim light, face pale as milk. Those big, blue eyes are wide with something that looks too much like fear.

    ¡°Sutton.¡±

    She flinches like I¡¯ve struck her. ¡°Got back early,¡± she mumbles. ¡°I¡¯m tired. Excuse me.¡± She scurries backwards down the hall and disappears into her room.

    Blyat¡¯.

    The innocent little daycare worker was never supposed to know the ins and outs of this part of my life. She¡¯s not here for power ys and betrayal, the bloody business of staying alive in a world where trust gets you killed.

    I¡¯ve kept her carefully walled off from all of it¡ªbut I just inadvertently dunked her in the deep end.

    On the heels of regretes annoyance.

    Whether she was eavesdropping on purpose or not, I need to know whether she can keep her mouth shut.

    Whether I can trust her¡­

    Or whether she¡¯s just another problem I¡¯ll have to take care of.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 36

    Tap, tap, tap.

    I hear the sound of Sutton¡¯s heels as she paces the bathroom floor. My bathroom floor.

    It still feels strange to think of her here, in my space. How easily I let her into my life.

    I should have seen the signs when I first saw her at Pavlov Industries in that ridiculous princess dress, all sunshine and innocence packaged in curves that could bring a man to his knees.

    The kind of woman who could make you forget yourself.

    Make you forget everything.

    But I¡¯m the kind of man who remembers. The kind who catalogs every detail, analyzes every angle.

    Like how perfectly timed it all was¡ªher arrival, those photos, the way she zed into my life as if it was nned.

    Maybe it was.

    My hand hovers over the bathroom door handle as doubts swarm like hos in my skull. Could she be a spy? It¡¯s the precise kind of move my uncle would make, dangling the perfect bait and waiting for me to snap at it like a hungry shark.

    Or maybe the old bastard is only seeding at making me paranoid.

    Fuck, he¡¯d love it if he knew he was in my head, pulling strings that I¡¯ve attached to myself.

    A gasp from behind the door silences my thoughts, slices straight through them to the heart of the matter: Is Sutton okay?

    I shoulder through without knocking, prepared for¡­ I¡¯m not even sure what.

    But not this.

    Sutton is bent over the vanity, head bowed, shoulders trembling as she stares down at the blue box in her hands. For a single second, I think this is it. Artem just asked me what would happen once she was pregnant, and now, I¡¯m going to have to find out.

    Then Sutton jerks towards me, the box falling to the floor at her feet¡­ and tampons spill across the shiny tile floor.

    Her gaze slides past me as she drops to the floor, scooping the tampons back into the box. ¡°Tampons. They¡¯re just¡ª I started my period.¡±

    She¡¯s shaking all over and none of this makes any fucking sense.

    ¡°I thought you were hurt,¡± I say wearily.

    She shakes her head, her voice catching as she speaks. ¡°I never minded getting my period. Now¡­¡± She swallows hard, and I watch her throat work against the tears she¡¯s fighting. ¡°I¡¯ve been dreading it. I thought it might happen. When I was out with Faye today, I thought I might be about to¡­ I didn¡¯t expect to be so disappointed.¡±

    ¡°Is that why you came home early?¡±

    Maybe she wasn¡¯t spying.

    Maybe she wasn¡¯t trembling because of what she overheard.

    She nods, shoulders lifting in a light shrug. ¡°I felt ite on, but I guess I was still hoping¡­¡± Her voice cracks. ¡°I just feel like a failure.¡±

    Something in my chest tightens¡ªan unfamiliar ache. Before I can think better of it, I¡¯m pulling her into my arms.

    The hos in my skull quiet when I hold her, reced by a different kind of buzzing. I start to forget why I was suspicious in the first ce.

    Because that¡¯s what Sutton does to me. She walks into a room and suddenly, my razor-sharp edges feel dull. My iron-d logic develops cracks.

    ¡°You¡¯re not a failure,¡± I reassure her. ¡°These things take time.¡±

    Herugh is weak against my chest. ¡°You hired me for one specific purpose. And I¡¯m not delivering.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s only been a couple of months.¡± I run my fingers through her hair, noting how she shivers at my touch. ¡°It took Artem and Faye a year before Lily came along.¡±

    Her eyes go wide. ¡°You¡¯d be okay if this took a year?¡±

    I consider it. The old Oleg would have cut his losses, found another solution. But something about this woman has rewired my circuits, scrambled my priorities.

    ¡°What other option do we have?¡± I pull her closer and breathe in the vani scent of her shampoo. My body responds to her nearness, picking up her vibration like a gong, filling with her, resonating with her. ¡°In any case, I enjoy trying.¡±

    She ps my chest. ¡°Don¡¯t joke.¡±

    ¡°Who¡¯s joking?¡± My voice drops an octave as I remember all the ways we¡¯ve ¡°tried¡± so far.

    In the shower, the kitchen, the car¡­ On her knees, on mine¡­

    I¡¯m getting hard at the memories alone.

    ¡°The longer it takes, the more we need to try. Two, three times a day if necessary.¡± My hand slides lower, proprietary. ¡°Hell, we can try right now.¡±

    Burying whatever I¡¯m feeling inside of her would be easier than admitting she¡¯s gotten under my skin.

    Easier than examining why I want to erase the sadness from her eyes instead of interrogating her.

    She pushes me away with a watery smile, but there¡¯s heat in her eyes that wasn¡¯t there before. ¡°I guess I didn¡¯t realize how badly I wanted this until we started trying.¡±

    I catch her hand before she can retreat further. ¡°Have you always wanted to be a mother?¡±

    Her answer is immediate. ¡°Yes. My mother wasn¡¯t there for me, and then we were in foster care with so many kids who had no one, and I knew I wanted to do it better. Sydney says I¡¯m trying to fill the mother-shaped hole in my life with a baby.¡±

    ¡°So?¡± I shrug. ¡°Everyone has their own reasons. As long as you n not to fuck it up, who cares what your reason is?¡±

    Her darkshes flutter against her cheeks. ¡°What¡¯s yours?¡±

    ¡°Necessity.¡±

    As soon as the word is out of my mouth, she pulls away, untangling herself. ¡°I don¡¯t believe you. Even you aren¡¯t that cold.¡±

    But I am.

    I have to be.

    ¡°It¡¯s always been inevitable for me. I never even considered whether I wanted children; I just knew I needed them.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve seen you with children, Oleg. You enjoy them.¡±

    ¡°I enjoy other people¡¯s children. Mostly because I can leave whenever I want.¡±

    ¡°You won¡¯t leave our kid,¡± she says confidently, eyebrow arched. ¡°You pretend like you don¡¯t care but I think that¡¯s a lie. It¡¯s just a way to protect yourself.¡±

    ¡°Is that right?¡± Amusement butts heads with irritation in my chest.

    ¡°You¡¯ve suffered losses, same as me, and you¡¯ve been deeply affected by them whether you admit it or not.¡± She steps closer, fearless. ¡°You¡¯re not going to let down an innocent child. Especially one you helped create.¡±

    ¡°We have to create this kid first,¡± I murmur against her ear, trying to derail this conversation before it ventures into territory I¡¯m not ready to explore.

    She shakes me off and stalks to the bed, all swaying hips and wounded pride.

    When she settles on the mattress, pulling her bare feet up and wrapping her arms around her knees, she looks pure enough to break my ck heart.

    ¡°That an invitation?¡±

    She shakes her head, a ghost of a smile haunting her lips. ¡°Is flirting your way of avoiding a real conversation? Because that won¡¯t always work with me.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s worked so far.¡±

    She res at me, epting the challenge. ¡°Don¡¯t you want the pretty picture for yourself? A family? Kids? The golden retriever and a white picket fence?¡±

    The questions fly like shrapnel, bits of memories I let go of a long time ago. In a different life. A different me.

    When I was young enough to believe in forever.

    ¡°There was a time when I saw myself settling down,¡± I admit. ¡°I don¡¯t want dog hair all over my house and I prefer barbed wire to picket fences¡­ but the rest of it¡­ I thought about it.¡±

    ¡°With Elise.¡± Her voice is soft, gentle.

    It¡¯s not a question, so I don¡¯t answer.

    Silence stretches between us like a tightrope. I can feel her curiosity poking against my skin, waiting for me to fill in the nks.

    But I¡¯ve never spoken about Elise and Oriana. Not to anyone who didn¡¯t know them before the fire.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry you?¡ª¡±

    I scowl at her downturned face, at the way shadows pool in the hollow of her throat. ¡°Don¡¯t bother. I don¡¯t need anyone¡¯s pity. Especially when no one else understands.¡±

    ¡°You think you have the monopoly on suffering? Well, you¡¯re wrong.¡± Fire zes in those blue eyes. ¡°You¡¯re not the only one who¡¯s had it rough, Oleg. I¡¯ve lost people who were standing right in front of me. My biological father looked me in the eyes and told me he didn¡¯t want me, that he¡¯d told my mother to get an abortion.¡± Her jaw clenches and her eyes sh. ¡°It wasn¡¯t like he didn¡¯t want children. He had other kids. He just didn¡¯t want me.¡±

    ¡°Then he¡¯s an asshole and a fool,¡± I grit out.

    ¡°At least he was honest about it,¡± she replies. ¡°My mom didn¡¯t want me, either. The only reason my dad knew I existed is because she carted me in front of him to shake him down for fourteen years of missed child support. She owed her dealer.¡±

    ¡°Jesus.¡±

    But the word isn¡¯t enough. Nothing could be enough for the rage building in my chest.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t have a family, Oleg. I had my sister, and there were days where that felt like enough. But there were a hell of a lot more where it wasn¡¯t. I didn¡¯t have a family to fall back on or to support me, but at least I can try and create it for¡ª¡± She stops, something shing behind her eyes like a knife in the dark. ¡°¡ªsomeone else.¡±

    The hesitation sets off warning bells. There¡¯s something she¡¯s not telling me, a truth she swallowed back at thest second.

    I should press her. Demand the rest of that sentence.

    But how the fuck can I expect her toy her soul bare when I keep mine locked in a vault of scar tissue, seawater, and smoke?

    I see betrayal in every shadow, treachery in every smile. And when betrayal doesn¡¯te, I still wait for the other shoe to drop. Wait for fire or bullets or fate to steal whatever I¡¯ve been stupid enough to care about.

    But trust isn¡¯t just about loyalty and secrets. It¡¯s about letting someone see your scars, inside and out.

    And Sutton¡­ fuck.

    She¡¯s the first person who¡¯s made me want to talk about the ghosts I carry.

    Maybe that¡¯s why I¡¯ve kept her at arm¡¯s length.

    Because letting down these walls means risking another loss.

    Still. When fate drops a gift in yourp, wrapped in a princess dress and golden hair, you don¡¯t just give it back. You can¡¯t just walk away.

    ¡°What are you thinking?¡± she asks, her voice soft as a confession.

    ¡°I¡¯m thinking of the day we met,¡± I tell her.

    For once, it¡¯s nothing but truth.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 37

    My fertility app depicts day two of my period as a blooming flower. Some graphic designer somewhere tried hard to make me feel happy about menstruation, but nothing in the world could make me feel happy about it today.

    Mostly because Oksana Pavlov is on her way to join me for lunch.

    Not that I invited her. An hour ago, my mother-inw sent me a text informing me she¡¯d being over for lunch, which means thest fifty-nine minutes have been a mad dash of cleaning, finding something semi-suitable to wear, and cursing the heavens that any of it is necessary in the first ce.

    With one minute to spare, I¡¯m sweaty and cramping and realizing that this woman isn¡¯t just some rich bitch with a superiorityplex.

    She¡¯s Oleg¡¯s mother. The only real grandmother my future children will ever have, thanks to my own sad excuse for a mom.

    I don¡¯t need to impress her for my own sake, but if I want my kids to have anything remotely close to the family unit I never had, I need her to like me.

    Or, at the very least, not mind being in my presence for a few hours at a time.

    The bar I¡¯ve set for myself is actually in hell, but we might be digging a tunnel underneath it today.

    I¡¯m even more certain when the elevators ding open and Oksana struts in like a five-foot-nine Prada mannequine to life.

    She slips out of her nude-colored trench coat without slowing her pace, revealing a sleeveless ivory dress underneath. Emeralds dangle from her ears like tiny trust funds.

    ¡°Hello, Oksana,¡± I manage, proud that my voice doesn¡¯t shake.

    Her gaze slithers down my body like a snake looking for the perfect ce to strike. ¡°I should¡¯ve given you more warning to get ready.¡±

    The condescension in her voice could strip paint.

    ¡°Oh no, this is actually my best white t-shirt.¡± Iugh, but she doesn¡¯t join me. If she did, her stony expression might crack right in half. I wave towards the kitchen. ¡°Are you hungry? I made pasta.¡±

    That gets a reaction out of her. Her fine-plucked eyebrows climb towards her silky hairline. ¡°You cooked?¡±

    ¡°I did.¡±

    I think the woman would be less surprised if I took flight while singing show tunes. ¡°You could have ordered something.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s nothing like a home-cooked meal, though.¡± Not that she would know. Nanna was the only one doing any home-cooking in her house.

    ¡°I haven¡¯t eaten pasta in eighteen years.¡±

    ¡°Good God,¡± I blurt. ¡°What¡¯s the point of living?¡±

    Her nose twitches. Her head tilts.

    For a moment, I think I might have actually amused her.

    But then her face smooths back into its usual mask of disdain. ¡°Perhaps you can order me a sd.¡±

    I consider caving. Oleg has a stack of fancy menus in the kitchen. I¡¯m sure one of them has a fifty-dor bowl of lettuce I could have express-delivered up to the penthouse, but fuck that.

    The second I start dancing to her tune is the second I lose whatever scraps of respect she might have for me.

    I turn towards the kitchen, waving her on. ¡°No need. I can whip something up for you.¡±

    There are a few seconds of silence before her heels clop hesitantly across the floor. She surveys Oleg¡¯s kitchen like she¡¯s inspecting it for health code vitions.

    When I gesture to one of the bar stools at the center ind, she perches on it as if she¡¯s afraid it might be contagious.

    I don¡¯t think this woman has ever set foot in a kitchen before. Her house probably has secret hallways for all of her staff to scurry around like mole people¡ªemployed, but never seen.

    I move around the kitchen pulling out ingredients¡ªfresh greens, tomatoes, cucumber, mustard for the vinaigrette. The silence lengthens until she finally breaks it, the wordsing out like they¡¯re against her will.

    ¡°You¡­ like¡­ to cook?¡±

    I start chopping vegetables with precise movements. ¡°My sister and I were in foster care and it was a lot of frozen dinners. I guess it made me appreciate good food.¡±

    Her perfect posture stiffens even further. ¡°How many foster homes have you and your sister lived in?¡±

    ¡°Four.¡± I keep my voice neutral, refusing to let her see how much these memories still sting. ¡°Until my sister aged out and petitioned for guardianship. Then I moved into her apartment.¡±

    ¡°Your sister took all of that on at such a young age?¡±

    She almost sounds impressed, so I leave out the part about Sydney¡¯s forty-three-year-old sugar daddy who came with the apartment. ¡°She was¡ªis¡ªa great big sister. She always took care of me.¡±

    Oksana sighs. ¡°That¡¯s the kind of sibling Oleg was, too.¡±

    The vulnerability in her voice catches me off-guard. Sometimes it¡¯s easy to forget that underneath all the Prada armor and attitude, she¡¯s a mother.

    A mother who lost her child.

    ¡°I would have liked to meet Oriana,¡± I say softly, trying to hold onto this rare moment of connection.

    Her eyes snap back to mine. ¡°What purpose would that have served? This isn¡¯t even a real marriage. It¡¯s all a sham.¡±

    The words smack me right across the face.

    I swallow down the bile rising in my throat. ¡°There may be other factors in our rtionship, but I still care about his life, his family. We¡¯re¡­ friends.¡±

    Sheughs, a brittle, patronizing sound. ¡°That¡¯s optimistic, but misguided. Why don¡¯t you just stick to the job you were hired for?¡±

    I¡¯m tempted to tell her exactly how much her son is enjoying me in my position, but there¡¯s no point antagonizing the dragon when I¡¯m still in the firing range.

    I slide her te across the counter to her, a peace offering she doesn¡¯t deserve. ¡°Sd¡¯s ready.¡±

    She eyes it like I¡¯ve served her live insects. Instead of picking up her fork, she pulls out a suede-wrapped tablet. ¡°We should discuss the wedding. Marilyn and I havee up with a few themes we think will work¡­¡±

    What follows is a death march through slide after slide of wedding ns. Everything from flowers to the seven-course menu has been decided¡­

    ¡­ without a single word of input from the actual bride.

    When she gets to the floral arrangements, I clear my throat. ¡°What role do I have in the nning?¡±

    She looks at me over the top of her tablet, lip curled. ¡°We already have a caterer, if that¡¯s what you were hoping for.¡±

    So much for my peace offering.

    Shots: fired.

    ¡°You¡¯re as aware of the terms of my contract with your son as I am.¡± My tone is icy, and I do nothing to hide it. I may look like a doormat to her, but I don¡¯t intend to be used like one. ¡°I¡¯m the bride. Shouldn¡¯t I get a say in my own wedding?¡±

    ¡°If Oleg had wanted you to have a say, he would have told you to n the wedding. But he entrusted that task to me.¡±

    ¡°Yes, but?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Event nning is a delicate business, Sutton. Wedding nning is apletely different beast. Our family has standards we need to uphold.¡± She scans my body with a pinched look on her face. ¡°Appearances are important.¡±

    ¡°I understand that, but it will be my family, too. I don¡¯t think choosing a wedding color will disgrace your?¡ª¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t understand Bratva traditions, and you certainly don¡¯t understand Pavlov family traditions,¡± she snaps. ¡°Oleg has apparently been too busy with other parts of the contract to exin any of this to you, but wedding nning is my job.¡±

    The knife in my back twists deeper¡ªbecause she¡¯s right.

    Oleg hasn¡¯t exined anything. Hasn¡¯t mentioned wedding nning or family traditions or any of it.

    We spend time together. We talk. Hell, sometimes, I even fool myself into thinking we¡¯re getting closer.

    But he¡¯s just humoring me. Giving me just enough rope to hang myself with, but never enough to actually bridge the gap between us.

    ¡°Here.¡± Oksana reaches into her Birkin bag and pulls out a small, velvet box. ¡°This is for you. It belonged to Oleg¡¯s grandmother.¡±

    My stomach drops as the lid lifts, revealing a diamond ring in a vintage setting. It¡¯s gorgeous, but all I see is another prop in this borate y we¡¯re putting on. All I can see are the generations of Pavlov women who must¡¯ve worn this ring. Who belonged in this family.

    Not women who signed contracts and yed pretend.

    ¡°You want me to wear it?¡±

    ¡°You need an engagement ring.¡± I don¡¯t miss the way she doesn¡¯t answer the question. ¡°I never liked the setting, anyway. Try it on to see if I need to make itrger.¡±

    I don¡¯t have to try it on.

    I already know it won¡¯t fit.

    None of this fits.

    I shouldn¡¯t be receiving an engagement ring from my mother-inw. Oleg should have been the one to give it to me.

    But there¡¯s a reason he hasn¡¯t. No sense risking the chance of having me think that we¡¯re more than just a contract couple.

    ¡°I¡¯m sure it¡¯ll be fine.¡± The box snaps shut with a finality that echoes in my chest. ¡°You¡¯ll have to excuse me.¡± I push back from the counter, my legs unsteady. ¡°I¡¯m tired, so I think I¡¯ll go?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Are you pregnant?¡± Her eyes sh to my stomach, and I see the disgust there. The horror that I might be carrying her grandchild already.

    I wish I could tell her I was. I wish I could spit it at her feet along with this ring.

    But I simply shake my head.

    ¡°Unfortunately, no. I know you already think I¡¯m a poor return on investment, but even Pavlovs can¡¯t fight nature.¡±

    I walk to the stove, mechanical movements keeping me upright as I spoon pasta into a dish.

    ¡°Lunch is ready if you want it. I made salmon and gremta as well. Oleg mentioned you enjoyed fish. If not, just leave everything¡ªI¡¯ll clean it upter.¡±

    I¡¯m halfway to escape when her voice stops me, suddenly soft. ¡°You made all this yourself?¡±

    ¡°Yes!¡± I snap, whirling around, all hope of impressing her dead and buried. ¡°I cook and I clean and I wear t-shirts when I¡¯m eating in my own home. What the hell do you have to say about it?¡±

    Something passes over her face¡ªsurprise maybe, or something deeper I¡¯m too exhausted to decode.

    She stands slowly, taking her back with her. ¡°Thank you, Sutton.¡± Her eyes meet mine and hold. ¡°For your time.¡±

    I nod and drag myself back to my bedroom. Minutes pass before my head stops pounding, but the ache in my chest persists.

    I feel hollowed out. Used. Shut out.

    But isn¡¯t this exactly what I signed up for?

    The family ring sits heavy in my palm¡ªa perfect symbol of everything wrong with this arrangement.

    Every time I think I¡¯m getting closer to Oleg, something happens to remind me this is all just business.

    The ring catches the light, mocking me with its beauty and history. A history that isn¡¯t mine to im, no matter what papers I¡¯ve signed.

    Maybe it¡¯s time to stop pretending.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 38

    I saw my mother arrive on the security cameras, watching her and Sutton circle around each other for an hour.

    I even saw my mother hand Sutton the engagement ring I¡¯d all but fucking forgotten about.

    But I still wasn¡¯t prepared for the cold wee I got when I came home today.

    Sutton has made it a habit to have something ready for dinner when I get home. She likes to cook, so I started making sure the pantry and fridge are stocked with whatever she might need.

    For years, the room was as useful as a showroom floor, but it¡¯s been good to see it get some use.

    It¡¯s been even better toe home to a meal we get to share together.

    Tonight, there¡¯s only a wilted sd that looks like it crawled out of thepost bin, and pasta so cold the sauce has basically fossilized.

    Leftovers from lunch with the Dragon Lady herself.

    I find Sutton in the living room, spinning that ring around her finger like she¡¯s trying to saw it off. Her blue eyes sh to me in the doorway before finding something fascinating on the carpet.

    ¡°I¡¯m going to order dinner. You want anything?¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t think it mattered what I wanted,¡± she bites back.

    Well, shit.

    When I told Artem my mother had been by to see Sutton, he told me I could crash at his ce. ¡°She just spent the afternoon with her mother-inw, which means you need to disappear for a week. Since her mother-inw is Oksana, maybe two. I¡¯d leave for the Sardinia trip early, if I was you.¡±

    Maybe Artem was right.

    I drag a hand down my face, feeling the ridges of scar tissue catch against my palm. ¡°If something is bothering you, you can?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Nothing is bothering me. Nothing ever bothers me.¡± Her eyebrow snaps into a dangerous arch.

    ¡°Is this about your period?¡±

    Murder fills those baby blues. ¡°I¡¯m a woman, therefore I must be upset because I¡¯m on my period, is that it?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not what I?¡ª¡±

    I roll my neck on my shoulders, rethinking this entire n. Sutton is fucking gorgeous, but holy shit, rtionships are exhausting. Even fake ones.

    ¡°If you don¡¯t want to tell me what¡¯s wrong, then don¡¯t. But I¡¯m not going to stand here and fucking guess.¡±

    I start to turn around when she leaps off the couch, cutting me off at the doorway.

    She shes her hand in front of me, wiggling her ring finger. ¡°Thanks for the ring. Or, I guess I should thank your grandmother.¡±

    ¡°You could, but she died fifteen years ago.¡±

    ¡°Then I guess I¡¯ll have to thank Oksana. Not that she wanted to give it to me, either.¡± She drops her hand, staring down at the ring like she¡¯d rather peel her skin back than wear it. ¡°She doesn¡¯t even want me in the family, let alone anywhere near the family jewels.¡±

    I snort, and she catches the double meaning a second after I do. She scowls up at me and tries to look away, but I catch her chin in my hand. ¡°What did my mother say?¡±

    ¡°Nothing.¡±

    I force her chin up, letting my skepticism show.

    ¡°You¡¯ve met your mother, Oleg. You know she doesn¡¯t need to say anything to make her opinions perfectly clear. It was just more of the same.¡± She pulls her face out of my hand, her eyes shimmering. ¡°I¡¯m beneath you and your precious family. You¡¯ve made a huge mistake by saddling yourself to me. And I can¡¯t be trusted to choose napkins for the wedding, let alone my own dress.¡±

    The second I saw my mother on the security cameras, I should¡¯vee home. Sutton is so fierce with me that I forget she¡¯s new to this world.

    She¡¯s not ready for a one-on-one with Oksana just yet.

    ¡°My mother can be overbearing.¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s a bitch.¡±

    On second thought, maybe Sutton is ready to face off with my mother after all.

    But as soon as the thought crosses my mind, her blue eyes widen.

    She looks up at me, her mouth open in horror. ¡°Oleg, I¡¯m¡­ I¡¯m so sorry. I shouldn¡¯t have?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Yes, you should have.¡±

    ¡°No!¡± she cries, her hands over her mouth as if she might be able to stuff the words back in. ¡°That was horrible of me. I shouldn¡¯t have said it.¡±

    ¡°She deserved it. And worse.¡± I catch her left hand and turn it in my palm, my finger circling that stone that¡¯s caused so much fucking drama. ¡°Do you like the ring at least?¡±

    ¡°If you want me to wear the ring, I will.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not what I asked.¡± I hold her hand more firmly. ¡°Do you like it?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s¡­¡± She shrugs her shoulders. ¡°I don¡¯t even know. I haven¡¯t even thought about it, honestly. It all took me off-guard. She showed up for lunch, dumped this ring in myp, and told me the entire wedding has been nned.¡±

    ¡°Did you want to n it?¡±

    Her brow furrows into delicate lines of confusion. ¡°I know none of this is real, but I guess I thought I¡¯d get to make some choices.¡±

    The defeat in her voice crumples me like a sucker punch to the gut.

    She feels stifled. Trapped.

    I recognize the signs.

    ¡°I¡¯m the one who told Maman to handle the wedding nning.¡±

    ¡°But it¡¯s our wedding,¡± she breathes, her eyes ssy. ¡°Don¡¯t you want to make the decisions together?¡±

    I¡¯ve spent years letting Oksana handle the social aspects of my life simply because it was easier. Because I didn¡¯t give a fuck.

    But watching Sutton struggle not to cry, I realize my hands-off approach has consequences now.

    I bark out augh. ¡°I¡¯m surprised my mother is throwing a wedding at all. She loves a party, but since I¡¯m going to be the center of attention at this one, I almost expected her to n an elopement so no one would have to see the scarred groom.¡±

    ¡°What are you talking about? You¡¯re basically the face of thepany.¡±

    ¡°In boardrooms. At parties with her careful guest lists. In pictures she can pay to have edited.¡± I turn my face, shing the scars. ¡°Haven¡¯t you noticed that her son is deformed?¡±

    Next to losing her daughter in that fire, the greatest tragedy for my mother was always the shame. The scandal. The sight of her once-perfect son turned into a monster.

    She¡¯s spent years burying it.

    I¡¯ve let her.

    Sutton¡¯s face falls. ¡°You aren¡¯t deformed, Oleg. I think you¡¯re¡­¡± She swallows, stepping closer. ¡°I think you¡¯re beautiful.¡±

    I stare down at her, tracing every minor emotion flickering across her face so I don¡¯t miss anything. ¡°Beautiful? That¡¯s a first.¡±

    She inches over to me timidly, her fingers trembling before she reaches out and puts her hand on my scarred arm.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry you have them, but only because of the way you got them. I¡¯m sorry you had to lose anyone. But now that they¡¯re here¡­ I can appreciate them. Because they¡¯re part of you.¡±

    Her hand slides up my shoulder to my face. I catch it with mine, squeezing her fingers. ¡°Does this mean you¡¯re done being angry with me?¡±

    She rolls her eyes, but her mouth melts into a smile. ¡°For now. I¡¯m sure there will be something elseter.¡±

    She pulls her hand back and I¡¯m tempted to protest. My skin is still tingling from where she was touching me.

    ¡°Fine, but can it wait until we get back?¡±

    ¡°Get back from where?¡±

    Artem would beat my ass for what I¡¯m about to do.

    But now that it¡¯s there, I can¡¯t let it go.

    I can¡¯t let her go.

    ¡°I have a trip to Sardinia in two days to meet with a client. I want you toe with me.¡±

    ¡°You want me to¡­¡± Her voice peters off, a smile stealing her words. Until reality crashes in and steals that, too. She shakes her head. ¡°I can¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°Why not?¡±

    She lowers her face, but I catch her bottom lip pinched between her teeth. ¡°For starters, I don¡¯t have a passport.¡±

    I don¡¯t say anything, but the lift in my brows must say enough because she drops her face into her hands.

    ¡°Being a foster kid meant I was a little too busy figuring out where I was sleeping to cross countries off my bucket list.¡± She blows out a breath. ¡°Your mother¡¯s right. You deserve?¡ª¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m going to stop you right there. Any sentence that starts with ¡®your mother¡¯s right¡¯ is usually wrong.¡± She tries to say something else, but I press my thumb to her mouth to quiet her. ¡°We could both use a breather. And we¡¯ll take one in Sardinia.¡±

    She waves a hand in front of my face. ¡°Hello? Still no passport.¡±

    I curl my hand around her cheek, brushing along her cheekbone. ¡°Just focus on packing and leave the rest to me.¡±

    I watch her face light up as though I¡¯ve promised her the moon.

    And all I can think is?¡ª

    I would literally do anything to keep that smile on her face, all day, every day.

    For the rest of our lives.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 39

    Italy has turned me into someone I scarcely recognize.

    A week in Sardinia with Oleg, and suddenly, I¡¯m the kind of girl who gets naked to ambush hot billionaires in hotel suites and seduce them into skipping business meetings.

    The kind who goes two rounds in bed, one more in the shower, and then still finds the hunger to ask for fourths before he¡¯s allowed out the door.

    Back home, there¡¯s a contract with my name on it. A sister who won¡¯t return my calls. And enough emotional baggage to sink one of Oleg¡¯s precious yachts.

    But here?

    Here, I¡¯m just a woman falling for a man who makes multiple orgasms feel like the night is just getting started.

    Oleg has been different here, too. Less growly, more yful. He talks to me about work and his surveince tech venture, sharing little pieces of himself between sheets and shower walls.

    Sometimes, I catch him looking at me like I¡¯m more than just his baby mama-to-be.

    It¡¯s probably the Mediterranean air making us both crazy. Or maybe it¡¯s the way his hands feel when they grip my hips.

    Either way, I¡¯m choosing not to think about what happens when this bubble bursts.

    It¡¯s surprisingly easy when I¡¯m standing on the bow of a super-yacht, looking across rippling aquamarine waves.

    It gets even easier when Oleg presses himself against my back, his hand exploring the slit of my emerald green dress like he designed it himself.

    I lean back against him and he kisses the nape of my neck with an open mouth.

    ¡°Will you stop trying to ruin me in public?¡± I ask. But I know I¡¯m not particrly convincing as I tip my head to give him better ess. ¡°People might see.¡±

    His palm spreads across my stomach, iming as much of me as he can. I feel the insistent press of how much he wants me against my ass.

    ¡°Good. I want them to see.¡±

    Voyeurism isn¡¯t usually my kink, but a thrill runs through me at the thought. ¡°They might kick us off the boat.¡±

    ¡°They wouldn¡¯t dream of it,¡± he murmurs, his beard scraping along my shoulder as he peppers every inch of exposed skin with kisses. ¡°I sold Mr. Conti this yacht myself. Gave him one hell of a deal and it was still the biggest sale of my career. He owes me.¡±

    ¡°Ah, so that¡¯s why he called you the guest of honor.¡± Mr. Conti practically waited on Oleg himself, pouring us both champagne for a toast the second we boarded.

    ¡°Right before he told us to eat, drink, dance, and make merry,¡± he growls against my ear, his fingers shifting dangerously close to where I¡¯m pulsing for him. ¡°I want to make you merry, Sutton.¡±

    My head falls to his shoulder as he cups me through the dress. We¡¯re clustered against the railing so no one can see how he¡¯s touching me.

    If I¡¯m quiet, he could finish me right here.

    I¡¯ve lived perpetually halfway to finishing this entire week. Just meeting his eyes across the room can get me close. A stiff breeze puts me right on the edge.

    So if he moves his hand right there?¡ª

    ¡°Okay! Okay, I¡­ Please,¡± I whimper.

    A darkugh rumbles through his chest. His hand is snaking beneath the slit of my dress, peeling aside the thin fabric of my panties?¡ª

    ¡ªwhen a man clears his throat to our right.

    I jolt, but Oleg steadies me with his body as he gracefully removes his hand and turns to face a man with the lightest blue eyes I¡¯ve ever seen¡ªeyes that seem to know exactly what he just walked in on.

    Still, he holds out a hand to Oleg. ¡°Daniel Bertrand. I¡¯ve been dying to meet you, Mr. Pavlov.¡±

    After a few back-and-forth pleasantries I miss because of the dizzying cocktail of desire and embarrassment swirling in my gut, Oleg leans in close. ¡°I have towork. Wait for me, princess.¡±

    It¡¯s not a question, and with how shaky my legs are, I don¡¯t have much choice. Oleg disappears below deck to talk business and earn himself another client.

    Meanwhile, I grip the metal railing to keep from crying out for him toe back and give me some damn relief, please.

    I spend half an hour waiting for Oleg to return. The music is growing louder as champagne flows, and I¡¯m forced to admit I¡¯ve lost my date to the lure of business.

    Apparently, the sex appeal of my dress is no match for the sex appeal of a check with many, many zeroes on the end of it.

    So I abandon my post and start exploring the rest of the floating pce. The guests lookpletely at home amidst the yacht¡¯s luxury. Women in tall heels kick their feet up on tables; men spill drinks as they roar with drunkenughter.

    Everyone seems to have a group they belong to, a face they recognize. The fact that I¡¯m a nobody among them gives me a strange hit of confidence.

    No one knows me here.

    Which means I could be anyone.

    A trust fund princess with degrees from schools I can¡¯t pronounce? Sure!

    A self-made tech mogul who sold her startup for billions? I don¡¯t see why not!

    A celebrity chef with a Michelin star and a mansion in the Hollywood Hills? Say the words and it will be so.

    I giggle to myself. Then I snag a ss of champagne as I make the rounds, observing.

    And since Oleg still doesn¡¯te back after onep of the yacht, I help myself to another ss.

    And another.

    Maybe one more after that, too.

    By midnight, the swanky boat christening party has morphed into something darker. Something hungrier. I pass a bartop dusted with cocaine ande to stand at the edge of the makeshift dance floor under a canopy of stars, watching bodies writhe to the pulsing beat.

    There¡¯s a feverish sheen in everyone¡¯s eyes, but the champagne bubbling through my veins makes it hard to care.

    ¡°Ciao, be.¡±

    An unfamiliar man in a sharp Italian suit is giving me a predatory smile. I didn¡¯t see him approach, but he¡¯s standing close enough that all I can smell is his overpowering cologne.

    Next to him is a woman with hair dark as an oil slick flowing down her back. Her midnight blue dress pops against her olive skin.

    I give an awkward little wave, immediately hating myself for losing my mysterious allure so quickly. ¡°Hi.¡±

    ¡°It would be criminal for beauty such as yourself not to dance,¡± he purrs in a heavy ent. ¡°This is what you want, no?¡±

    ¡°T-to dance?¡± I stutter like an idiot. ¡°Um, sure, I love dancing. But my fianc¨¦ is busy, so?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Do you always wait for permission to enjoy yourself?¡± the woman cuts in. Her ent is softer, but her attitude sharper.

    ¡°No, of course not.¡±

    ¡°Then dance with us.¡± She holds out a perfectly manicured hand. ¡°I¡¯m Francesca. This is Antonio.¡±

    I look between them. ¡°You want me to dance. With¡­ both of you?¡±

    Francesca¡¯s dark eyes slide down my body like a caress. ¡°You looked lonely. We couldn¡¯t bear it.¡±

    Back at home, I¡¯d refuse. I¡¯d thank them for the offer and make my excuses, slipping away. Hiding.

    But I¡¯m in another country¡ªpractically another world¡ªand just drunk enough to think this might be an adventure.

    Besides, it¡¯s just a dance.

    No harm, no foul.

    My face is warm as I take Francesca¡¯s hand. ¡°Okay. Why not?¡±

    She pulls me against her, the sequins of her dress pricking my skin like tiny warning signs. Under the strobing lights, she looks like one of those music box ballerinase to life: beautiful, perfect, and somehow slightly sinister.

    ¡°Rx, ch¨¦rie.¡± Her breath fans my neck. ¡°You¡¯re young and beautiful. There is so much to celebrate.¡±

    She spins me and Iugh despite myself. The champagne hits at just the right moment, making the colors brighter, the music deeper, the night more electric.

    And it¡¯s not just the alcohol. I¡¯m in Sardinia.

    On a yacht.

    Living a life I never thought possible.

    I let my body move to the beat, and Francesca ps in delight. ¡°Brava! The girl can dance,¡± she says in approval, her gaze lingering in ces it shouldn¡¯t.

    I¡¯ve always loved dancing. I just haven¡¯t had much reason totely, with the weight of survival pressing down on my shoulders and all.

    But tonight feels different.

    Alive.

    Like anything could happen.

    A hand slides around my waist and suddenly, Antonio is there, pressing against my back.

    ¡°Bellissima,¡± he croons in my ear.

    I¡¯m not sure if thepliment is meant for me or his wife. I try to shimmy away so they can dance together, but they both seem much more interested in me than in each other. They keep me trapped between their bodies.

    Weird, but not enough to set the rm bells ringing quite yet.

    But as the bass drops and the crowd presses closer, those hands start to wander.

    Francesca grinds against my front while Antonio grabs my hips and pulls me against him.

    I slow my movements, plotting my escape as soon as the song ends. But Francesca doesn¡¯t seem to notice. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted. The strap of her dress starts to slip down, and Antonio grabs it and teases it further down, exposing one of her breasts.

    Shit. Mayday. Abort mission.

    I spin away, only to collide with Antonio¡¯s chest. He clutches my hands, keeping me close as we move.

    ¡°I think I¡¯ve had enough¡­¡±

    He grins down at me. ¡°No, no, you cannot go. We¡¯re having such fun with you.¡±

    Yeah. That¡¯s what I¡¯m afraid of.

    ¡°But¡ª¡±

    ¡°My Francesca and I, we love Americans so much.¡± His fingers thread through my hair. ¡°And you are so beautiful. Please¡­ stay¡­¡±

    ¡°I¡ª¡±

    A hand mps down on my shoulder like an iron vise. Before I can process what¡¯s happening, I¡¯m yanked backward off the dance floor.

    Antonio nces from me to the beast of a man over my shoulder, his eyes wide with what looks a lot like regret.

    Even Francesca breaks from her trance. She yanks her shoulder strap back into ce as I¡¯m dragged away without another word.

    ¡°Hey!¡± I try to twist free of Oleg¡¯s grip.

    No such luck.

    He drags me below deck where the music fades to a dull throb and the silence rings in my ears. After the chaos above, it¡¯s downright eerie.

    ¡°Let me go!¡±

    His teeth grind together but he refuses to release me. ¡°What the fuck do you think you¡¯re doing?¡±

    Those gold eyes burn with a heat that could melt steel. His jaw is sharp enough to cut throats, but it¡¯s the stare that terrifies me most.

    I haven¡¯t seen the Beast in a while.

    He¡¯s making an appearance tonight.

    ¡°I was dancing!¡± I snap. ¡°What did it look like?¡±

    ¡°It looked like my fianc¨¦e was cozying up with all the wrong people.¡±

    I could tell him I was actually trying to leave said ¡°wrong people,¡± but the possessiveness in his voice strikes a chord of defiance in my chest.

    ¡°I was having fun. Maybe you¡¯re too busy working to notice, but this is a party. I was just dancing with a nice guy and his wife.¡±

    ¡°¡®Wife¡¯?¡± He barks out a harshugh. ¡°Is that what they told you?¡±

    I rey our introductions and it was admittedly brief. We went from ¡°hello¡± to grinding a bit too fast for specifics, but I¡¯m not about to tell Oleg that.

    ¡°Francesca is Conti¡¯s mistress,¡± he exins. ¡°And that dipshit you were dancing with is her fuck boy.¡±

    ¡°Conti¡¯s mistress¡­¡± I do my best to draw the tangled web in my mind, but it still doesn¡¯t make sense. ¡°But we met his wife! She¡¯s here on the yacht.¡±

    ¡°Oligarchs haveplicated social lives.¡± His lip curls. ¡°It¡¯s not for us to get in the middle of. Literally or figuratively.¡±

    The champagne buzz is fading fast. ¡°I¡­ I didn¡¯t know.¡±

    ¡°You would have if you¡¯d asked me first.¡±

    I bark out augh. ¡°Well, you weren¡¯t exactly around to ask, Oleg. I was alone for over an hour.¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t trust you to be alone? Do I need to order you to keep your hands to yourself while I¡¯m conducting business? Do I need to cuff you?¡±

    I jab him in the chest. ¡°You have no right to order me to do anything.¡±

    ¡°That ring on your finger says otherwise.¡±

    I gasp. ¡°Then maybe I¡¯ll take it off.¡±

    I grab for the ring, but before I can twist it off my finger, Oleg closes the distance between us and snatches my hand. ¡°Don¡¯t you fucking dare.¡±

    His chest brushes against mine with every breath. The world has narrowed to this empty room, the thrum of my heart drowning out the music above deck.

    ¡°I may be your fianc¨¦e, but I¡¯m not your property, Oleg. You don¡¯t own me. I can make my own decisions.¡±

    He folds my hand in his, pinning it between our chests. His heart thunders against the back of my hand. ¡°You¡¯re in my world, princess. These people¡­ They want more from you than you understand. Those two wanted to take you to bed.¡±

    ¡°They wanted to dance!¡±

    ¡°They wanted to fuck you.¡± His voice descends into a growl that vibrates through my bones. ¡°They like inviting thirds into their bed. They propositioned me at a partyst year.¡±

    An image of Oleg tangled up with Francesca while Antonio watches fills my head, and I hurry to shove it down.

    I feel sick. Jealous over something that never even happened.

    And that¡¯s when it hits me.

    I look into his dark eyes, shimmering with rage and something else, something possessive. ¡°You¡¯re jealous.¡±

    His brows jump in surprise before he grinds out a condescendingugh.

    ¡°It¡¯s true!¡± I pull my hand away from his. I¡¯m pressed against the wall, so there¡¯s nowhere to escape to, but I lean back to give myself more space. ¡°You are! You didn¡¯t like seeing us dancing together.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t like seeing you acting like some innocent littlemb in a pack of hungry fucking wolves.¡± He reaches for my chin, but I swat his hand away. ¡°You¡¯re going to be my wife, Sutton. You have to know who these people are and what they want from you. Everythinges with strings and everything has consequences.¡±

    I cross my arms over my chest. ¡°Like how dancing with another manes with the consequences of making Oleg very jealous.¡±

    His nostrils re as he looms over me, blotting out the dimmed lights in the ceiling. ¡°You think I¡¯m jealous?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t have to think about it. I can see it in your eyes.¡± I meet his re head-on. ¡°You didn¡¯t like me dancing with Antonio. And not just because I¡¯m your ¡®fianc¨¦e,¡¯ not just because of what people will think. But because of what you felt when you saw me with him.¡±

    ¡°Someone certainly thinks highly of herself.¡±

    I slip out from between his body and the wall, heading for the stairs. ¡°Fine. If you weren¡¯t jealous, then I¡¯ll go back upstairs and find someone else to dance with.¡±

    He jerks me back before I can reach the first step.

    He crushes me against his body, knocking the breath out of my lungs. ¡°Don¡¯t test me, woman. The only man you¡¯re going to touch tonight is me.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll agree to that,¡± I breathe, tipping my head back to meet his eyes. ¡°If you tell me the truth.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re ying with fire,¡± he warns in a low whisper. His breath is hot against my lips.

    I lift my hand to trace the scars on his face with gentle fingers. ¡°I¡¯m not afraid of fire. Tell me the truth, Oleg.¡±

    As my fingers slide over his mouth, his lips part. He grabs my fingers between his teeth. ¡°Fine.¡±

    Our bodies rock together, and I lick my lips¡ªa move he locks in on. ¡°Fine what?¡±

    ¡°I was jealous.¡± His hand slides up my thigh. He picks up right where we left off earlier, stroking his thumb over the damp center of my panties. ¡°And it seems you like it.¡±

    I open my mouth to argue, but he shifts thece aside and touches me, skin to skin. He works a thumb through my soaking center, circling over my clit.

    The only thing thates out of me is a groan.

    ¡°You like being mine, princess,¡± he whispers, working a thick finger into me. I part my thighs to invite him deeper. To take more. He pushes a second finger into me, stretching me like it¡¯s nothing. ¡°You want me jealous.¡±

    ¡°And you want me all to yourself,¡± I gasp, cupping the throbbing erection pressing against the front of his pants.

    Anyone could walk past the stairs and see us. But as I unzip Oleg¡¯s pants and free him, feeling him hard and hot in my palm, I don¡¯t care about anything else.

    He gives a rough thrust into my palm as he strokes his fingers into me. Our lips meet in a moan, moving together in sloppy, desire-drunk kisses as we stumble back against the wall.

    Oleg slides his fingers out of me as I bring him to my entrance.

    And with one thrust, he¡¯s buried inside of me.

    ¡°Fuck, Sutton,¡± he breathes, finding my hands and pinning them to the wall above my head. Our fingers intertwine as he pushes into me again and again.

    I curl my thigh around his hip, and he slides home even deeper. I cry out, but it¡¯s lost when he kisses me again.

    We¡¯re as close as we can be, but it isn¡¯t enough.

    This entire week of fucking and talking hasn¡¯t been enough.

    I want more.

    I think I¡¯ll always want more.

    And the way Oleg holds me, breathing only my name as wee together while the wealthy, insane people who popte his world carry on with their reckless sins somewhere above our heads¡­

    I think he wants more, too.

    When we fall apart together, gasping and crying out, all I can think is, He¡¯s just as much mine as I am his.

    Whether he admits it or not.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 40

    I¡¯m in front of the full-length mirror, tugging on the first item of clothing I¡¯ve worn in twelve hours, when Oleg emerges from the bathroom.

    He¡¯s dressed in workout clothes, but his hair is still mussed from my hands.

    The sight of him makes my thighs clench.

    His gaze catches mine in the mirror. Last night floods back¡ªhis hands pinning mine to the wall, his mouth on my neck, him carrying me to bed when we got back to our room so we could do it all over again.

    ¡°Sure you don¡¯t want to join me?¡± He arches an eyebrow, lips curving into that devastating half-smile.

    I shake my head. We both know if I go with him to the gym, we won¡¯t be making it out of the locker room.

    ¡°Some of us are still recovering fromst night.¡±

    ¡°Poor baby.¡± He moves behind me, hands settling on my hips. ¡°I didn¡¯t hear anyints when you were screaming my name.¡±

    Heat burns my cheeks. ¡°I wasn¡¯t screaming.¡±

    ¡°No?¡± His fingertip traceszy circles on my hip bone. ¡°Then maybe I should try again.¡±

    I elbow him in the ribs and he chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. ¡°I like this.¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Us. No phones, no family drama, no business bullshit. Just you and me.¡±

    And just like that, the world back homees into focus.

    The armed men chasing us down the street, my sister and her abuser, Drew and his burner phone.

    I¡¯m supposed to be getting updates about Sydney every week, but it¡¯s been two since Ist checked.

    Guilt smacks me sideways, but Oleg seems oblivious to my inner turmoil. ¡°We should stay another week. Maybe a month. Fuck everything else.¡±

    I force a smile. ¡°Your mother would hunt us down.¡±

    ¡°Worth it.¡± He drops a kiss on my shoulder. ¡°Back in an hour. Feel free to be naked.¡±

    The door shuts behind him and I count to thirty, heart thundering.

    Then I¡¯m diving for the closet, yanking open my backpack, fingers trembling as I dig out the phone I almost didn¡¯t bring with me.

    I was afraid Oleg would find it, but there hasn¡¯t been any chance of that because I haven¡¯t even been checking it.

    What kind of selfish, sex-obsessed sister am I?

    I power on the phone, drumming my fingers nervously as the screen lights up. And¡­

    Fuck.

    Eleven missed calls. Three messages.

    DREW: Something went down between Sydney and Paul.

    DREW: I¡¯m taking Syd away so that Paul can cool down. Why aren¡¯t you picking up?

    DREW: Where the fuck are you? Sydney needs you, Sutton!

    My hands shake as I hit call.

    One ring.

    Two.

    Three.

    ¡°Where the fuck have you been?¡± Drew growls. ¡°I¡¯ve been trying to get in touch with you for days! Where the hell have you?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Where¡¯s Sydney?¡± I interrupt.

    ¡°Oh, now, you care about her?¡±

    Heughs, masking his anger like he cares about Sydney¡¯s safety. But I recognize the undertone of jealousy.

    He knows where I¡¯ve been.

    And with whom.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry I didn¡¯t answer. It¡¯s been a busy few days.¡± My voicees out steady despite the way my pulse races.

    Three floors down, Oleg is probably doing his first set of bench presses,pletely unaware that I¡¯m up here talking to the man he wants to destroy.

    I pace to the window, scanning the grounds below like Oleg might materialize at any second. ¡°Where¡¯s Sydney?¡±

    ¡°Fuck that. Tell me where you?¡ª¡±

    A female voice cuts through in the background, high and demanding.

    Relief washes over me. Sydney¡¯s okay. She¡¯s alive.

    There¡¯s a brief tussle while they fight for the phone, then?¡ª

    ¡°Sutton?¡± Sydney is breathless.

    My knees give out and I sink onto the bed. I¡¯m holding the phone so tightly I think it¡¯ll snap. ¡°Syd? Are you okay?¡±

    She lets out a shakyugh. ¡°I¡¯m so d to hear your voice.¡±

    ¡°Where are you?¡±

    ¡°California.¡± She hesitates. ¡°Drew brought me here for a few weeks.¡±

    ¡°That was¡­ nice of him.¡±

    I¡¯m hesitant to give Drew anything even resembling credit, but if he got my sister away from Paul, I¡¯m willing to make an exception.

    ¡°Not really. Paul made him. Apparently, he couldn¡¯t bear the sight of me anymore.¡±

    The words hang there as the picture expands in front of me. I grip the phone tighter, nails digging into stic. ¡°Paul kicked you out?¡±

    ¡°He didn¡¯t kick me out exactly.¡± The deniales quick, practiced. ¡°He just wanted a¡­ a breather. Some alone time. It was my fault, really. I keep picking fights. I just can¡¯t control myself sometimes.¡±

    My sister. My beautiful, broken sister, making excuses for a monster.

    Again.

    ¡°Is he with another woman right now?¡± I spit the question, imagining it¡¯s right in Paul¡¯s eye. ¡°What did he do?¡±

    The silence on the other end of the line deepens and deepens, long enough I think the call might have dropped.

    ¡°¡­ Syd?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m here.¡± She lowers her voice to a meek whisper. ¡°Listen, I hope Drew didn¡¯t make this sound like a big deal or anything, okay? It¡¯s not. We just hit a rough patch. Paul will cool down and we¡¯ll get past it.¡±

    A rage I can¡¯t leash down bubbles up in me. ¡°¡®A rough patch¡¯? Syd, he hit you and then you disappeared for weeks! He basically kidnapped you and then shipped you off with Drew when he was finished.¡±

    ¡°It wasn¡¯t like¡ª¡± She takes a deep breath, trying to control herself. Not for my sake, but for Paul¡¯s. Because she¡¯s going to defend him, I already know it. ¡°I just didn¡¯t want to talk.¡±

    ¡°To me specifically? Because I¡¯m the only person who tells you the truth?¡±

    Forget toeing the line; I¡¯m dancing on it. I¡¯ll be lucky if Sydney doesn¡¯t hang up on me forever, but I can¡¯t keep any of this inside anymore.

    ¡°You¡¯re with a man who makes you miserable!¡± I add. ¡°Who hits you and makes you feel like shit, and I¡¯m the only one who will tell you to dump his worthless ass!¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t understand, Sut. You¡¯ve never been in love.¡±

    Iugh. It¡¯s a sharp, bitter sound that makes me feel even worse. ¡°Sydney, you can¡¯t really think you love Paul.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ve been together for three years. He¡¯s my person.¡±

    ¡°No, I¡¯m your person!¡± Tears well in my eyes, and I swipe them away angrily. ¡°I¡¯m supposed to be your person, Syd. It¡¯s always been you and me against the world.¡±

    ¡°Oh yeah? My engagement announcement must¡¯ve gotten lost in the mail. You get engaged to a billionaire and I have to find out in the tabloids.¡±

    I recoil from the phone like she hit me herself. ¡°Okay, that¡¯s not¡ª It¡¯splicated.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, I heard that from someone else, too.¡± She snorts. ¡°Drew told me none of this is real.¡±

    ¡°Drew doesn¡¯t know a fucking thing,¡± I hiss. ¡°You can¡¯t trust him.¡±

    ¡°At least he¡¯s here.¡± She sniffles, and I know she¡¯s crying, too. How the hell did we get here? We¡¯re literally, emotionally, on opposite ends of the globe from each other, and I don¡¯t know how to fix it.

    ¡°You don¡¯t get to lecture me while you¡¯re engaged to Oleg. At least Paul and I love each other.¡±

    ssic Sydney. Cornered animals always bite the hand trying to feed them.

    But fuck if she hasn¡¯t drawn blood this time.

    ¡°You may love him, but does he love you?¡±

    ¡°Of course he does.¡± The response is automatic, robotic. ¡°He¡¯s just¡­ passionate. He gets upset and he?¡ª¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s a brute, Sydney!¡±

    ¡°Better a brute than a scarred beast, Sutton!¡± After a beat of silence, she continues. ¡°Drew told me all about your fianc¨¦ and his nickname. Are you really going to tell me our situations are so different?¡±

    I nce at the door, paranoid Oleg might walk in even though I know he¡¯s still downstairs. My hands are trembling so hard I can barely hold the phone.

    ¡°They are different,¡± I say, but even I hear the uncertainty in my voice.

    Why can¡¯t I find the words to exin how this thing with Oleg is nothing like her and Paul?

    Because it is. It¡¯s so much different. Oleg isn¡¯t a monster. Oleg doesn¡¯t hurt me.

    But¡­

    ¡°You¡¯ve made your feelings about my rtionship clear. I know you think Paul is using me and he¡¯ll dump me once he¡¯s finished, but what makes you think your billionaire is any different?¡± she asks. ¡°Unless you want to tell me you think Oleg Pavlov is actually in love with you?¡±

    I want to argue, but I can¡¯t.

    The proof¡ªthe contract¡ªsits in Oleg¡¯s safe back home, my signature at the bottom. A million dors for my body, mypliance, my freedom.

    Sure, the sex is incredible.

    Sure, he can be gentle, even tender sometimes.

    But at the end of the day, I signed myself over to him just like Sydney handed herself to Paul.

    I was blinded by Oleg¡¯s beauty and charm.

    No, that¡¯s not the only reason you signed the contract. You did it for her. To save her. The way she¡¯s always saved you.

    ¡°You say it¡¯splicated only because you can¡¯t face the fact that you¡¯re just like me, Sutton.¡± Sydney twists the knife. ¡°And that kills you. You think you hide it well, but I know that following in my footsteps is your greatest fear.¡±

    I swallow hard. ¡°I love you, Sydney. I just want what¡¯s best for you.¡±

    ¡°Maybe you should let me decide what¡¯s best for me, huh?¡±

    I want to tell her about the money and how I¡¯ll be able to help her. Just give me some time, and I can get you out. We can be together.

    But there are footsteps in the hallway.

    I check the time. Oleg should be gone for another forty minutes, but he¡¯s back.

    There isn¡¯t time.

    ¡°Okay,¡± I stammer, already moving towards the closet. ¡°Okay, but¡­ please stay in touch. Please don¡¯t go quiet on me. I need to know you¡¯re okay.¡±

    There¡¯s a beat that feels like an hour before she sighs. ¡°I can do that.¡±

    ¡°I love you, Syd.¡±

    The line goes dead before she says it back.

    There isn¡¯t time to dwell on it. I shove the phone back in the corner of my bag just as the door bursts open and Oleges in.

    ¡°I cut the workout short,¡± he announces to the room. ¡°The blood was rushing to all the wrong ces.¡±

    I take a steadying breath before I walk back into the suite, the conversation with Sydney echoing in my head.

    Unless you want to tell me you think Oleg Pavlov is actually in love with you?

    I want to say yes.

    But I¡¯m not sure what I think anymore.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 41

    The mahogany double doors to the boardroom swing open just as I¡¯m about to click to the next slide.

    I¡¯m in the middle of a presentation I¡¯ve been preparing for thest three months¡ªyears, actually¡ªwhen my uncle¡¯s personal chef wheels in a cart loaded with covered silver tters, followed by two servers carrying wine bottles.

    ¡°A brief lunch break,¡± Boris announces, spreading his arms wide and grinning. ¡°We can¡¯t properly evaluate such an important proposal on empty stomachs, can we?¡±

    Bullshit.

    The timing is deliberate, designed to disrupt my momentum just as I was getting to the meat of my presentation.

    This meeting will determine whether Pavlov Industries embraces the future or remains trapped in my uncle¡¯s antiquated vision.

    And after the warning I issued Boris a few weeks ago, he¡¯s not willing to go quietly.

    The board members shift in their ergonomic leather chairs, carefully not meeting my eyes as the first tes are set before them.

    Duck confit with roasted fingerling potatoes. The rich aroma of herbs and rendered fat fills the air.

    ¡°Please, everyone, enjoy,¡± Boris gestures magnanimously. ¡°The 2015 Chateau Margaux pairs beautifully with Chef Bernard¡¯s signature dish.¡±

    I cracked open my own bottle of winest night, taking swigs from the bottle as Sutton and I flowed seamlessly from fucking to talking and back to fucking. We stayed up way toote, but I considered it an early celebration. No one would be able to deny the facts of my presentation.

    Which is exactly why Boris is trying to stop me from delivering them.

    I remain standing at the head of the conference table, one hand resting on myptop. The proposal glows on the screen behind me.

    The slides detail how my quantum-encrypted meshwork can and will revolutionize maritime security. Three years of R&D, countless sleepless nights, and now, Boris wants to derail it all with fucking duck confit.

    I clear my throat. ¡°I can continue with the presentation while you eat. The next section covers the proprietary algorithms that make our system impossible to hack or?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Nonsense!¡± Boris interrupts, already working on his second ss of wine. ¡°This deserves our full attention. Both the meal and your¡­ proposal.¡± He draws out thest word like it tastes sour.

    I grind my back teeth, tasting metal. The future of Pavlov Industries hangs on this vote. My surveince system could position us to dominate the global maritime security market for the next decade.

    But Boris would rather watch his empire crumble than see me seed.

    Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear Sutton¡¯s voice fromst night, soft and sure.

    ¡°You¡¯ve got this. Make them see what you see.¡±

    The memory of her naked in my bed, hair wild across my pillows, threatens to derail my focus. I push it aside.

    I can¡¯t afford distractions right now, no matter how tempting.

    I take my seat, watching the board members fall on their food like starving wolves. So be it. Let them gorge themselves into a fooda.

    When the votees, I¡¯ll make damn sure they remember more than just the duck.

    I use the enforced break to review my notes, though I¡¯ve memorized every detail. The quantum meshwork is elegant in its simplicity¡ªa series of interconnected nodes that create an imprable security bubble around any vessel.

    Boris drones on about wine vintages while I pull up thetest test results on my tablet. Last week¡¯s trial run exceeded even my expectations. The system detected and disabled three cyber-attacks within milliseconds, while simultaneously tracking all physical threats, including boats, drones, and subsurface vehicles, within a five-mile radius.

    The dessert course arrives just as Rodney Weiss wipes thest of the duck sauce from his mouth.

    ¡°Perhaps now, we could return to the presentation?¡± he suggests, and I detect a note of genuine interest beneath his diplomatic tone.

    I¡¯m back on my feet before Boris can object. The next slide fills the screen. It¡¯s a 3D rendering of the integrated sensor array.

    ¡°This is where we differentiate ourselves from every other security system on the market,¡± I exin. ¡°Traditional systems rely on predetermined threat signatures. Ours learns and adapts in realtime.¡±

    Heads nod around the table. Even my mother has stopped pretending to be fascinated by her wine ss.

    ¡°I have a list of clients ready to pre-order. The implications for the super-yacht market alone¡ª¡± I begin.

    But Boris¡¯s theatrical cough cuts me off.

    ¡°Yes, yes, very impressive.¡± Pitching his hands beneath his chin, he leans back in his chair. ¡°But perhaps we should discuss the technical limitations?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯ll be a short conversation,¡± I grit out. ¡°There aren¡¯t any.¡±

    Boris scans the room, his mustache twitching in a suppressed smirk. ¡°Spoken like someone who iscking the wisdom and caution thates with experience.¡±

    Turning his back to me, he opens his ownptop.

    The screen behind me flickers and changes. My carefully prepared slides vanish, reced by internal testing data that should have been secure behind multiple firewalls.

    Data showing early prototype failures.

    Vulnerabilities that my team resolved months ago.

    ¡°As you can see,¡± Boris continues, his voice dripping with false concern, ¡°there are significant issues with signal degradation in heavy weather. Not to mention the power consumption problems¡­¡±

    The board members lean forward, frowning at numbers that paint an iplete picture. Numbers stolen from my private servers.

    How the fuck did he?¡ª?

    I meet my uncle¡¯s eyes across the table and see the triumph there.

    The bastard thinks he¡¯s won.

    ¡°These numbers are outdated,¡± I cut in, keeping my voice steady despite the rage burning in my chest. ¡°Ourtest test results show?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Is that so?¡± Boris affects an expression of exaggerated concern. ¡°This data is from your own servers, nephew. Are you suggesting your research team has been falsifying reports?¡±

    The subtle trap in his words makes my jaw clench. Any defense I offer now will only make me sound desperate or ipetent.

    He¡¯s yed this perfectly, the crafty old fuck.

    I scan the faces around the table. Rodney still looks interested, but uncertain now. The others are already shifting in their seats, preparing to side with whoever holds the most power.

    Right now, that¡¯s Boris.

    ¡°The question before us today is simple,¡± Boris continues, spreading his hands. ¡°Do we risk thepany¡¯s future on an unproven system? Or do we maintain our position as industry leaders in traditional shipbuilding?¡±

    ¡°¡®Traditional¡¯?¡± I can¡¯t keep the edge from my voice. ¡°The maritime securityndscape is evolving. Ourpetitors are already developing simr systems. If we don¡¯t adapt?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Then we¡¯ll do what we¡¯ve always done¡ªwe¡¯ll make careful, methodical moves. We won¡¯t chase every shiny new bauble thates along.¡±

    I clench my fists and watch decades of umted loyalty and influence tip the scales against innovation.

    ¡°I move that we put it to a vote,¡± Boris announces.

    My mother finally raises her hand. ¡°I suggest we table the discussion until?¡ª¡±

    ¡°No.¡± I cut her off. ¡°Let¡¯s vote now.¡±

    Why?

    Because fuck it.

    I want every person on this board to show their true colors.

    I want to see exactly who I¡¯m dealing with.

    It¡¯s the same shitshow as before. The votes are split between us, with my mother abstaining. Which means Boris¡¯s position as CEO gives him the deciding say-so.

    He doesn¡¯t even try to hide his smirk as he delivers the final nail. ¡°Motion denied. Now, shall we adjourn to my office for drinks?¡±

    He sweeps out of the boardroom, followed by his loyal brood of brainlessckeys.

    I remain at the head of the table, staring at the damning numbers still disyed on the screen.

    Someone¡ªeither Boris or some poor schmuck who will be dead by the end of all of this¡ªbreached my security to ess data that should have been private.

    The irony would be funny if it wasn¡¯t so fucking infuriating.

    I need to get out of here before I do something stupid. Like wrap my hands around my uncle¡¯s throat and squeeze until that smug smile disappears forever.

    I gather my things, already mapping out my next moves, when the tap of heels on hardwood stills me. I don¡¯t need to look up to know it¡¯s my mother, lingering behind after the others have gone.

    ¡°That could have gone better,¡± she says mildly.

    I snap myptop closed with more force than necessary. ¡°Really? I thought it went exactly ording to n. Boris¡¯s n.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t be petnt.¡± She moves closer, lowering her voice. ¡°If you want to y this game, you need to think three steps ahead. Boris clearly did.¡±

    ¡°He hacked my private servers.¡±

    ¡°Then perhaps your security isn¡¯t as impressive as you im.¡±

    The barb strikes home, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

    ¡°Was there something specific you wanted to discuss, Mother? Or did you juste to offer unhelpful critiques?¡±

    She studies me for a long moment, her face unreadable. Her aloofness has always been grating. The day of Oriana¡¯s funeral, she was the picture of perfection in ck Prada, a veil covering her face so no one could see she hadn¡¯t shed a single tear.

    Because nothing ever fazes Oksana Pavlov.

    ¡°How is your youngdy?¡±

    The abrupt change of subject nearly throws me. ¡°Sutton is fine.¡±

    ¡°But not pregnant yet.¡±

    And there it is. The real reason she stayed behind.

    ¡°It¡¯s been less than six months,¡± I growl.

    ¡°Which means you have little time left before we need to consider other options.¡±

    Something ugly rears up inside me at her words. ¡°We won¡¯t be considering anything. Sutton isn¡¯t some disposable asset to be reced if she doesn¡¯t perform to specifications.¡±

    ¡°No?¡± Her perfectly sculpted eyebrow arches. ¡°Isn¡¯t that exactly what she is? A means to an end? Don¡¯t tell me you¡¯re developing feelings for the girl.¡±

    The fact that I can¡¯t immediately deny it pisses me off more than anything else that¡¯s happened today.

    ¡°I know exactly what this arrangement is,¡± I say coldly. ¡°And I don¡¯t need your input on how to manage it.¡±

    She sighs, looking genuinely disappointed. ¡°Love is a weakness, Oleg. Your father taught you that.¡±

    ¡°My father is dead.¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡± The word is clipped, final. ¡°He is.¡±

    She turns and walks away, leaving me alone with the ghost of my father and the memory of Sutton¡¯s smile this morning.

    I need to get the fuck out of here. My phone buzzes with calendar reminders¡ªthree meetings this afternoon, including a video call with our Chinese partners.

    I cancel them all with a few taps.

    The only cure for the headache brewing behind my eyes right now is the open ocean. I need the wooden deck under my feet and the salt spray on my face.

    But, for the first time, I realize that¡¯s not all I need.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 42

    OLEG: Meet me at the boatyard. I want to get away with you.

    We¡¯ve been back from Sardinia for a few weeks, but the vacation haze has lingered. The way we¡¯ve been falling into bed together every night, rarelying up for air, it¡¯s hard to feel like we¡¯vee back at all.

    Now, he wants to leave again?

    OLEG: n on staying on the ocean for a couple nights. Pack ordingly.

    I want to believe we¡¯re getting close. I want these past weeks to mean something.

    Of course, if they did, Oleg would tear up our contract and set it on fire.

    He¡¯s been clear about what this ¡°rtionship¡± is: It¡¯s business.

    Which is why I send him a picture of the positive ovtion test I took this morning.

    SUTTON: This is going to be a work trip for you. Just saying.

    I¡¯m softening the blow of my own disappointment, setting boundaries before he can sh through my fantasies.

    But my heart still does a flutter when I see him texting back.

    OLEG: I¡¯d send you a dick pic to show how ready I am, but that would be crude.

    Iugh and jump up to pack a bag. As I stuff a swimsuit and enoughce nighties for him to shred through one at every meal and still have some left over, I can¡¯t stop from wondering if this is what it¡¯s like for Sydney.

    When Paul called Sydney up and apologized for sending her away¡ªwhen he requested Drew bring her to meet him in London¡ªwas she giddy?

    She sounded giddy. I¡¯ve spoken to her every day on the phone since that call in Sardinia. We tiptoed around the abusive boyfriend of it all until the day she told me Paul was taking her shopping in London.

    ¡°He said he¡¯s sorry, Sut. He meant it this time, I could tell.¡± She was lying to herself and to me, and we both knew it.

    But there wasn¡¯t anything I could say.

    I¡¯m not like that, though.

    Oleg isn¡¯t like that.

    This may not be a real rtionship, but he isn¡¯t cruel. He doesn¡¯t hurt me. As far as the Palmer women¡¯s luck goes, that¡¯s just about as good as it gets.<hr>

    The yacht rocks gently under my feet as I walk towards where Oleg stands at the helm.

    Salt air whips my hair around my face, carrying with it the briny scent of the harbor. Behind us, the city stretches like a glittering pearl ne along the coast.

    Oleg¡¯s hands grip the wheel too tightly, his knuckles white with tension.

    But when he turns to look at me, his golden eyes are dark with hunger.

    ¡°Come here,¡± he growls.

    Just like when he asked me toe to Sardinia, when he¡¯s taken me to bed every night the past few weeks, when he texted me an hour ago¡ªI can¡¯t resist.

    Because that¡¯s what Oleg does to me. He pulls me in even when every survival instinct screams for me to run. He makes me want to believe in fate.

    In the possibility that sometimes, broken things can fit together to make something whole.

    His mouthtches onto mine before we¡¯ve cleared the breakwater, desperate and demanding. My back hits the sleek console, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I register the bite of chrome against my spine, the whir of the autopilot engaging.

    But most of my attention is focused on the way Oleg¡¯s hands shake as they push my sundress up over my hips.

    There¡¯s an edge to his touch today, a rawness I haven¡¯t felt since those first desperate encounters.

    He¡¯s not just hungry.

    He¡¯s starving.

    I should slow us down. Should ask about the shadows in his eyes, the tension thrumming through his powerful body.

    But then his fingers find me, and all coherent thoughts dissolve.

    ¡°Already wet for me,¡± he growls against my throat. His teeth scrape my pulse point. ¡°Such a good girl.¡±

    I don¡¯t think ¡°good girls¡± let Russian billionaires bend them over their bow in full view of several yachts close enough to see everything.

    But if that¡¯s what he calls good, then I want to be good for him.

    He enters me in one brutal thrust, and I cry out, my nails scrabbling for purchase on the polished teak decking.

    Anyone could see us. I should be mortified, but it just makes me wilder.

    I push myself back against him, taking him deeper, smiling as he groans. ¡°That¡¯s it. Take what you need, princess.¡±

    I ride him in deep, even strokes until my legs begin to shake. My orgasm is building so fast.

    Too fast. He grips my hips and drives into me. Instantly, the pleasure crests.

    I cry out a second before Oleg follows me over the edge. His body shudders against mine.

    For a moment, we stay locked together, panting. The yacht¡¯s engine thrums beneath us, as steady and powerful as my own heartbeat.

    I¡¯m still recovering when Oleg grabs my wrist and pulls me towards the stern.

    ¡°Where are we going?¡± I ask as he pushes me against the railing.

    ¡°I¡¯m not done with you yet.¡±

    There¡¯s something frantic in his words. Like he¡¯s running from something by burying himself inside of me.

    I know the strategy well.

    I lean against the railing on shaky legs, watching the way his shoulders bunch with tension under his fitted shirt. The polished deck is warm beneath my bare feet, and the wind whips harder here.

    He bends me over the railing without ceremony. The metal is sun-warmed against my palms, and far below, turquoise water churns in our wake. We¡¯re fully out of the harbor now, nothing but ocean ahead.

    This time, when he takes me, it¡¯s slower, but no less intense. His chest presses against my back, one arm banded around my waist while the other grips the railing beside mine. He¡¯s caging me in, protecting me from the pitch and roll of the waves.

    ¡°Look how far we are from shore.¡± He grips my chin, forcing me to look back over our shoulders as he drives into me. ¡°No one to hear you scream. No one to save you.¡±

    I wonder if he¡¯s trying to scare me, but then I see the haunted look in his eyes. It¡¯s like he¡¯s somewhere else, on another boat, another day, another ocean.

    The dying sunlight turns his scars gold, and I remember where he got them.

    The water has always been his escape, but it also took everything from him.

    That¡¯s how most love goes, in my experience. In Oleg¡¯s, too.

    The things you hold close can hurt you the most.

    Which is why I¡¯m determined to prove him wrong.

    His arm tightens around my waist as we rock together, using my body as an anchor against whatever he¡¯s wading through.

    ¡°I¡¯m with you,¡± I whisper, reaching back to tangle my fingers in his hair. ¡°I¡¯m here.¡±

    He stiffens for a moment, his rhythm faltering. Then he growls and snaps his hips harder, as if trying to drive the tenderness from my voice with the force of his thrusts.

    This orgasm builds slower than the first, but it¡¯s deep, rocking me to my very core. When it takes me, I scream into the wind. Oleg buries his own sound in my shoulder, his breath warm against my skin.

    We slide to the deck together. The wood is smooth against my back as I stare up at the cloudless sky.

    Beside me, Oleg¡¯s breathing is ragged.

    ¡°Five minutes,¡± he says roughly. ¡°Then we go again.¡±

    I turn my head to look at him, noting the way his jaw clenches, the tight line of his shoulders. ¡°Are we going for some kind of record?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re ovting, aren¡¯t you?¡± he barks. ¡°We should make the most of it.¡±

    Right. Business. This is still business.

    But I can¡¯t quite convince myself of that now. Oleg didn¡¯t bring me here because of a contract.

    Something else is happening.

    ¡°And we have,¡± I say softly, watching his profile tighten. ¡°But getting pregnant takes time. We already talked about this. For some couples, it can take months or?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Years?¡± He tears away from me, surging to his feet. ¡°No. I don¡¯t have fucking years.¡±

    The sudden violence of his movement makes me flinch, old instincts kicking in. I pull my dress around myself like armor as he paces the deck.

    The silence looms between us, broken only by the p of waves against the hull and the distant cry of seabirds.

    I wait, hoping he¡¯ll exin what¡¯s really bothering him, but he just keeps pacing, each turn bringing him closer to the edge of something I can¡¯t quite see.

    Finally, I pull myself up, gripping the railing for support. The metal is still warm from where we just?¡ª

    But I push that thought away. Right now, I need to focus.

    ¡°Do you want to tell me what¡¯s really going on?¡±

    ¡°Nothing¡¯s going on.¡±

    ¡°Right. Because this little boat trip of yours has no ulterior motive other than the pleasure of mypany.¡±

    He stops pacing and stops a few feet away from me, his eyes shing. ¡°What is that supposed to mean?¡±

    ¡°It means that the ocean is your safe ce. Youe here when you need to think, when you need space. So if we¡¯re spending days out here, something¡¯s wrong.¡±

    He stops pacing to re at me, a vein pulsing in his forehead. ¡°Maybe I just wanted a good fuck.¡±

    I flinch but refuse to back down. ¡°Well you got one. Two, actually.¡±

    ¡°Third time¡¯s the charm,¡± he grits out.

    ¡°Or we could try something revolutionary. It¡¯s called talking about what¡¯s actually bothering you.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t need to talk about anything. And I certainly don¡¯t need you to take care of me.¡±

    I straighten my spine, refusing to let him see how much it hurts. ¡°Right, because you¡¯re the big, bad Beast, aren¡¯t you? Too strong to need anyone?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± he snarls, baring his teeth.

    ¡°If that were true, I wouldn¡¯t be here in the first ce.¡±

    His nostrils re, and for a moment, I think he might actually throw me overboard. The yacht rocks beneath us, and I grab the railing tighter.

    ¡°You¡¯re only here because you can cook and my chef is out for the week,¡± he spits. ¡°The fact that you can fuck, too, is just a bonus.¡±

    I¡¯ve heard worse¡ªfrom foster parents, from my own father.

    But this cuts deeper.

    Because it¡¯s Oleg.

    Because I thought, for a stupid, naive second, that he was different.

    Because, despite everything, I¡¯m starting to love him.

    My hands shake, but my voice is steady when I say, ¡°You think I don¡¯t see what you¡¯re doing? You think I¡¯m so stupid I can¡¯t see right through you?¡± I step forward, jabbing my finger into his chest. He¡¯s a wall of muscle, immovable as granite, but I don¡¯t care. ¡°You want to push me away, so you say evil shit to hurt me. But newssh, Oleg: I¡¯ve been hurt before. That won¡¯t stop me from being there for the people I care about.¡±

    Something res in his eyes.

    As if me caring about him is the most terrifying thing of all.

    I take a step towards him. ¡°Oleg, you can¡­ If you want to, you can talk to me.¡±

    For a moment, the mask slips. I see the lost boy beneath the Beast, the one who couldn¡¯t save his sister, who thinks he doesn¡¯t deserve to be saved himself.

    Then his face hardens, and he spins away, storming below deck.

    What was I thinking?

    This is Oleg fucking Pavlov.

    He¡¯ll break before he bends.

    And I¡¯m starting to worry I¡¯ll break way before he does.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 43

    The trouble with a yacht is that there¡¯s nowhere to run.

    After the way Oleg tore into me earlier, I should be plotting my escape. But unless I want to drown on my way back to drynd, on this yacht is where I¡¯ll stay.

    I could find one of the many empty guest rooms and hide out. If I was careful, Oleg and I could coexist out here for weeks without ever crossing paths.

    That¡¯s exactly what he wanted, after all, isn¡¯t it?

    To push me away.

    To handle whatever is bothering him alone.

    Oleg wanted to hurt me so I¡¯d leave the way everyone else has, and if I give him what he wants, I won¡¯t be giving him what he needs.

    Which is why I¡¯m scooping risotto into two bowls, trying to keep my hands from trembling. I didn¡¯t just cook for him¡ªdefinitely not because he said it was all I was good for.

    I¡¯m doing it for us. For this fragile thing growing between us that has nothing to do with contracts or obligations.

    I find him on the bow, a dark silhouette against the star-scattered horizon. His broad shoulders are rigid with tension as I approach.

    Part of me thinks this was a stupid idea and I should scurry back below deck and eat risotto alone in the dark of my cabin, but I force myself forward.

    I extend the bowl like a peace offering and he eyes it warily, eyebrow arched.

    ¡°It¡¯s not poisoned, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re thinking.¡±

    His jaw tightens. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t me you if it was.¡±

    Well, that¡¯s progress. It¡¯s a small win, but I¡¯m going to need more.

    ¡°Is that supposed to be an apology? Because if it is, you need to work on your delivery.¡± I take a step away from him, tearing my eyes from the sharp line of his jaw. I can¡¯t let myself soften until he makes the effort and meets me halfway.

    But that doesn¡¯t mean I won¡¯t nudge the door open.

    ¡°Did your presentation this morning not go well?¡±

    He stiffens. ¡°How did you?¡ª¡±

    ¡°The walls at your penthouse aren¡¯t soundproof, Oleg. And contrary to what you might think, I¡¯m notpletely self-absorbed. I know today was important.¡±

    He takes a bite of risotto, chewing slowly. The moonlight catches the scars on his face, making them look deeper, older somehow.

    ¡°Boris sabotaged me. He hacked my servers, doctored my numbers, and made me look like a fucking amateur in front of the board.¡±

    The bitterness in his voice makes me flinch. ¡°And your mother?¡±

    ¡°Abstained from voting. As usual.¡± Heughs, but there¡¯s no humor in it. ¡°The great Oksana Pavlov, forever refusing to choose between her son and her own neck.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    The words feel inadequate. The person who should love him more than anyone in the world won¡¯t stand behind him. I don¡¯t know how to apologize for that.

    ¡°Don¡¯t be. It¡¯s not your fault my family¡¯s fucked up.¡± He sets the bowl down, turning to face me fully. ¡°Which is why I shouldn¡¯t have taken it out on you. The things I said?¡ª¡±

    ¡°¡ªwere cruel,¡± I finish for him. ¡°And hurtful. And unnecessary.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡± His eyes lock with mine. ¡°There¡¯s so much at stake here. If I don¡¯t secure my position, if I don¡¯t prove I can lead both thepany and the Bratva¡­¡± He trails off, running a hand through his hair. ¡°You would be¡ª Our child would have no protection. No legacy. Nothing but enemies waiting to strike.¡±

    The weight of what he¡¯s saying settles over me like a shroud.

    This isn¡¯t just about business or pride.

    It¡¯s about survival. About ensuring our future child has a ce in this dangerous world he inhabits.

    But understanding doesn¡¯t equal forgiveness. Not yet.

    ¡°I get it,¡± I say quietly. ¡°But if you ever speak to me like that again, I¡¯m gone. Contract or no contract.¡±

    His eyes darken, jaw working as he processes my ultimatum.

    Good. Let him stew in it.

    ¡°I grew up with nothing,¡± I continue, forcing steel into my voice. ¡°No protection. No legacy. Just me and Sydney against the world. So I understand wanting to give our child everything. But I won¡¯t let them grow up watching their father treat their mother like she¡¯s worthless.¡±

    He flinches. Actually flinches. ¡°That¡¯s not?¡ª¡±

    ¡°What you meant? Maybe not. But it¡¯s what you did.¡± I wrap my arms around myself, shivering even though the night isn¡¯t particrly cold. ¡°You made me feel this small, Oleg.¡±

    Like I was no better than my mother, falling for the same cruel, handsome men again and again.

    ¡°Fuck. I didn¡¯t¡ª I wouldn¡¯t¡ª¡± He scrubs a hand over his face. An awkward pause follows before he picks up his risotto again, takes another bite. ¡°This is good.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t change the subject.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not. I¡¯m acknowledging that I was wrong earlier. About your cooking. About¡­ everything.¡± He sets the bowl down again, shifts closer. Not touching, but near enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. ¡°When Boris sabotages me, it¡¯s not just about business. It¡¯s personal. He¡¯s trying to prove I¡¯m still that scared, helpless kid who couldn¡¯t save his sister. Who doesn¡¯t deserve to lead.¡±

    My heart clenches. ¡°Is that what you believe?¡±

    ¡°Some days.¡± His voice drops to a whisper. ¡°The days when everything goes wrong and I can feel control slipping through my fingers¡­ Those are the days I be like him. When I¡¯m the Beast everyone expects me to be.¡±

    I want to reach for him, to smooth away the pain etched in his features. But we¡¯re not there yet. ¡°You¡¯re not a beast, Oleg. But you¡¯re not invincible, either. None of us are.¡±

    He turns to me, moonlight catching the gold in his eyes. ¡°How do you do that?¡±

    ¡°Do what?¡±

    ¡°See through all my bullshit. Cut straight to the heart of things.¡± His mouth quirks up at the corner. ¡°That¡¯s why I like having you around. Not for the food. Or the fucking. Though both of those things are good, to be clear. It¡¯s because you see.¡±

    I¡¯ve spent my whole life watching people hide their pain. My mother. Sydney. Even myself, more often than not.

    But I can only shrug.

    ¡°Maybe I just pay attention.¡±

    His hand moves toward mine, then stops, hovering in the space between us.

    Testing.

    Waiting.

    ¡°I don¡¯t deserve your attention,¡± he says roughly. ¡°Or your understanding.¡±

    ¡°Probably not.¡± I fight the urge to close the distance between our hands. ¡°But you have it anyway.¡±

    We eat in silence, listening to the water and the soft purr of the engine. The quiet is easy, and no words need to be exchanged when he takes my bowl from my hands, lifts me to my feet, and leads me down the stairs to his cabin.

    His room smells like him, woodsy and sharp. I fall back on the bed, leaning on my elbows as he stops in front of the mirror.

    He catches my eye in the reflection. ¡°I know we¡¯ve made up, but we¡¯re not fucking again, are we?¡±

    I pinch my bottom lip between my teeth. There¡¯s a pleasant ache between my legs from the first two rounds already. One more might push me over the edge.

    ¡°I mean, we could, but¡­¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m tired,¡± he announces, letting me off the hook and reaching for a tube on the countertop. ¡°I could just go to sleep. With you.¡±

    This doesn¡¯t mean anything. It¡¯s still just a contract.

    I shove that voice aside and smile. ¡°Okay.¡±

    Oleg focuses on his own reflection, unscrewing the lid of what I realize after a few seconds is some kind of cream for his scars. I¡¯ve never seen him apply it before¡ªnever even seen the tube.

    He squeezes some into his palm and begins massaging it onto his face. I take it as a good sign that he¡¯s willing to do it in front of me now.

    ¡°I¡¯ve never seen you do that before. How often do you have to use it?¡±

    ¡°Twice daily, in theory. In reality, I do it when I remember.¡±

    I frown. ¡°And how often do you remember?¡±

    He shrugs. ¡°Couple times a week.¡±

    ¡°Oleg!¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re not going anywhere. The cream isn¡¯t a magic potion. It just helps with mobility.¡±

    Before I can stop myself, I¡¯m on my feet and reaching for the bottle. ¡°Give it to me.¡±

    His entire body goes rigid. ¡°What are you doing?¡±

    ¡°If you won¡¯t take care of yourself properly, I will.¡± I keep my voice firm. ¡°Consider it part of our arrangement.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not in the contract.¡±

    ¡°Neither was you being an asshole earlier, but here we are.¡± I wiggle my fingers. ¡°Hand it over.¡±

    For a moment, I think he¡¯ll refuse. His expression darkens, that familiar wall threatening to m down between us. But then, slowly, he extends the bottle.

    My hands tremble slightly as I squeeze cream onto my palm. I¡¯m not sure I thought this all the way through. This feels monumental somehow¡ªmore intimate than sex, more vulnerable than any conversation we¡¯ve had.

    I reach for his face, hesitating just before contact. ¡°Is this okay?¡±

    He nods once. I touch his scars with feather-light pressure, expecting him to pull away.

    Instead, he leans into my hand, eyes drifting shut.

    My throat tightens. How long has it been since someone touched him like this? With care instead of clinical detachment or pent-up revulsion?

    ¡°Tell me about Oriana,¡± I whisper, keeping my strokes gentle and even. ¡°What was she like?¡±

    His eyes snap open. ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°Because she¡¯s part of you. Because these scars are connected to her memory. Because I want to know.¡±

    His breath hitches. For a long while, there¡¯s only the sound of waves and the feeling of rough scar tissue beneath my fingertips.

    ¡°She was¡­ fearless,¡± he finally says. ¡°I was always one to look before I leapt. She just dove in headfirst. Used to drive our mother crazy. And keep me busy.¡±

    ¡°You took care of her?¡±

    Something dark passes across his face, but he doesn¡¯t pull away. Not this time.

    ¡°I tried. I was only older by a few minutes, but I was still her older brother. It was my job to take care of her.¡±

    I smooth my hand over his cheek, trying to imagine him without the scars, but I can¡¯t. I¡¯m not sure I even want to.

    ¡°And whose job was it to take care of you?¡± I whisper.

    His throat works up and down, swallowing. Then he tugs my wrist, drawing me closer until we¡¯re pressed together. My heart thunders against my ribs as his other hand cups my face.

    ¡°I¡¯m not good at this, Sutton. At¡­ letting people in. I can¡¯t promise I won¡¯t fuck up again,¡± he says roughly. His thumb traces my bottom lip. ¡°But I want to try. With you.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not good at this, either.¡± I press my forehead to his, breathing him in. ¡°We¡¯re quite a pair, aren¡¯t we?¡±

    ¡°Maybe that¡¯s why this works.¡± His lips brush mine, so faint it¡¯s almost unreal. ¡°We recognize the damage in each other.¡±

    The kiss deepens, and I let myself melt into it, into him.

    For now, right here, there are no contracts or obligations. No family legacies or corporate takeovers.

    Just us.

    Two broken pieces.

    One whole thing.<hr>

    The morning sun glints off the boats in the marina and res off the pavement. After three days alone on the open water, being back on drynd almost feels ustrophobic.

    Oleg and I should¡¯ve had more than enough of each other on the yacht, but he pulls me against his chest and my body responds instantly. I arch against him, hands fisting in the warm fabric of his t-shirt.

    ¡°I¡¯lle with you.¡± His voice is gruff, possessive.

    ¡°You can¡¯t leave your car here.¡±

    ¡°Fine. Then youe with me.¡±

    Iugh and press a kiss to his jaw. ¡°I can¡¯t leave my car here, either. We¡¯ll see each other in ten minutes.¡±

    He growls, making his displeasure known. ¡°Too long.¡±

    My insides are in a twist. Every second in his arms makes it harder and harder for me to keep this rtionship in its proper ce. I want him so badly I¡¯d let him take me right here on the asphalt¡­

    ¡­ which is exactly why I need ten minutes to myself. I need to breathe and get my feet back on solid ground.

    Literally.

    ¡°I need to make a grocery run. We have nothing to eat at the penthouse.¡±

    ¡°Who needs food when I have you?¡±

    His fingers tangle in my hair, tilting my face up for a deep kiss. When he finally releases me, I¡¯m breathless.

    ¡°Twenty minutes, tops,¡± I gasp, sliding away from him.

    He looks like he might toss me over his shoulder and carry me with him. Instead, his eyes narrow as if in warning.

    ¡°Drive safe.¡±

    I smile and get behind the wheel, watching him stride towards his car in the rearview mirror. My body still hums from his touch as I turn out of the lot.

    It feels good being alone. No Uri shadowing my every move. No security detail tracking my location.

    Just me, running a simple, normal errand like a simple, normal person.

    I¡¯m driving past Pavlov Industries when a Ford Mustang peels out of the executive lot.

    I slow down just a tad as it sails past me. Enough to see¡­

    Oh, fuck. The sight of white-blonde hair sends tendrils of dread racing up and down my spine.

    Drew.

    I park the car and pull out my phone, hands shaking as I type.

    Did I just see you driving around town? What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be in Vegas?

    The sea¡¯s magic feels very far away now, reced by a familiar, creeping dread.

    Whatever peace Oleg and I found on that yacht, I have a feeling it¡¯s about to be shattered.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 44

    DREW: If you wanna know what¡¯s going on in my life, babe, then I¡¯m gonna need a kiss first. Meet me at our townhouse in an hour.

    I fling my phone onto the passenger seat like it¡¯s a live grenade that might detonate at any second.

    Bile rises in my throat, hot and acidic.

    The burner phone was a mistake. Everything about letting Drew slither back into my life was a mistake.

    But here we are¡ªhim thinking he can snap his fingers and make me heel like the good little pet I used to be.

    I dig my nails into my forearms, angry red welts appearing as I try to remind myself where I am, that I¡¯m safe. It¡¯s an old habit after years of foster care, bouncing around to different houses, different beds.

    The tic alwayses back when I¡¯m scared.

    And right now, I¡¯m terrified.

    Because Drew isn¡¯t just in Florida anymore. He¡¯s circling Pavlov Industries like a vulture sizing up carrion.

    Another text lights up my screen.

    DREW: Come on, babe. Don¡¯t be shy. This ce is your home, too, remember? I bought it for both of us.

    ¡°Fuck you,¡± I whisper.

    That house was never a home. Even when Drew was out, I didn¡¯t have any freedom, courtesy of the cameras he installed both inside and out of the townhouse to track my every move.

    It was a prison.

    Then it hits me.

    My hands shake as I pull up the security app on my phone. Drew never changed his passwords. Ever. He said his ¡°shit was locked up too tight to get hacked.¡±

    So does that mean¡­?

    Username: BigDickDrew

    God, I wish I was making this shit up.

    I type in the old password, holding my breath.

    No way he kept it the same. No fucking way is he really that stu?¡ª

    The feed loads.

    Six different camera angles pop up on my screen. Three inside, three outside.

    And there¡¯s Drew¡¯s cherry Mustang parked in the driveway, next to a ck sedan with custom tes.

    I rewind the footage, pulse thundering in my ears as I watch Drew emerge from his car.

    The sedan doors open a beatter. The men who step out of it aren¡¯t anyone I recognize, but something about them makes my skin crawl.

    This isn¡¯t just Drew being Drew.

    This is something else.

    Something worse.

    I save the footage and m my car into drive, tires squealing as I peel out of the parking lot. I should go straight to Oleg. That¡¯s what a good fianc¨¦e would do. What a trustworthy person would do.

    But the fragile trust we¡¯ve built over the past few days feels so delicate, like blown ss¡ªbeautiful but liable to shatter at the slightest touch.

    If I tell him about Drew, I¡¯ll have to tell him everything.

    The burner phone. Sydney. Paul.

    All of it.

    So instead of heading home to Oleg, I point my car toward Artem and Faye¡¯s ce, praying I¡¯m making the right choice.

    Artem is in the front yard when I pull up, looking like some suburban dad fantasy in cargo shorts and a sweaty t-shirt.

    ¡°Hey, you,¡± he says, eyebrows lifting. ¡°Were we expecting you?¡±

    ¡°Sorry.¡± I cringe, already regretting this. ¡°Surprise visit.¡± I nce around for tiny humans. ¡°Where are the little ones?¡±

    ¡°With their grandparents. Hence the unusual quiet.¡± He gestures toward the house as Faye emerges carrying a tray. ¡°We were just about to have lunch. You want to join?¡±

    ¡°Oh, God, no, I don¡¯t want to impose. This¡¯ll be quick.¡±

    Faye sets down a pitcher of lemonade and what looks like grown-up sandwiches¡ªthe kind without crusts cut off. There¡¯s an ice-cold beer for Artem, too.

    ¡°Everything okay, Sutton? You look rattled.¡± Artem pulls up a third chair while something sharp and hollow pierces my chest.

    Will I ever have this? This slice of suburban paradise with its manicuredwn and matching patio furniture?

    Will Oleg and I ever lounge in our garden on child-free afternoons?

    Will all our afternoons be child-free if I can¡¯t get pregnant?

    Will there even be an ¡°us¡± without a baby?

    I don¡¯t n on sitting, but my knees give out and I sink into the chair, clutching my phone in white-knuckled hands.

    ¡°Th-thanks,¡± I manage when Faye squeezes my shoulder. ¡°I¡¯m really sorry to crash your lunch.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t be ridiculous,¡± Faye scolds. ¡°We¡¯re here whenever you need us.¡±

    I turn to Artem, throat tight. ¡°I have something you need to see. I don¡¯t know what it means or how dangerous it might be, but¡­ I thought you should know.¡±

    I pull up the surveince footage and hand over my phone. Faye leans in to watch with him.

    Artem¡¯s face stays neutral¡ªright up until the ck sedan appears. Then his features harden into something that makes my stomach drop.

    His jaw clenches. His nostrils re.

    Fuck. He definitely knows who these men are.

    He hands back my phone without a word, his expression carved from stone.

    ¡°You know them?¡± My voicees out small.

    ¡°Do you?¡± There¡¯s an edge to his question that makes me flinch.

    ¡°I know Drew,¡± I exin, picking at my nails. ¡°The guy with the Mustang. He¡¯s my ex. We broke up ages ago?¡ª¡±

    ¡°But you still have ess to his surveince system?¡± One dark eyebrow arches up like a question mark made of skepticism.

    I cross my arms, nails digging into my flesh again. ¡°He never changes his passwords. Probably forgot I had the code.¡±

    That eyebrow stays raised, calling bullshit without saying a word. ¡°And the others?¡±

    ¡°No idea.¡± I force myself to meet his gaze. ¡°But I¡¯m guessing you do.¡±

    Faye¡¯s head swivels between us like she¡¯s watching some high-stakes tennis match, wanting to jump in but not knowing which side to pick.

    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you take this to Oleg?¡± Artem¡¯s voice is soft. Dangerous.

    ¡°Because I was scared,¡± I whisper. ¡°The board sided with Boris again and he¡¯s already dealing with so much. I didn¡¯t want to make it worse by telling him about Drew and whatever fucked-up game he¡¯s ying.¡±

    ¡°And what game do you think that is?¡±

    I exhale slowly. ¡°Nothing good.¡±

    His eyes slide to Faye, then back to me. ¡°You¡¯re right, Sutton. I know exactly who those men are. Which means I have to act. And I can¡¯t do that properly without involving Oleg.¡±

    I flinch, even though I knew this wasing. ¡°Then you should know there¡¯s more.¡±

    His whole body goes still. ¡°Go on.¡±

    ¡°I saw Drew¡¯s car leaving Pavlov Industries this morning. That¡¯s why I checked the cameras in the first ce.¡±

    Artem nods once, sharp and decisive. ¡°Thank you for telling me. But now, you need to tell Oleg. All of it.¡±

    My heart tries to crawl up my throat. ¡°Those men¡­ Are they dangerous? Will they hurt Oleg?¡±

    He actually snorts. ¡°They wish.¡± He stands, all six-foot-something of him radiating violent purpose. ¡°Tell Oleg everything you just told us. He needs to hear it from you first.¡±

    My palms are sweating when I grab my keys. ¡°Thanks for listening.¡±

    Faye pulls me into a hug. ¡°It¡¯s going to be okay, honey.¡±

    I manage a tight smile because I can¡¯t make my mouth form the lie of agreeing with her.

    Then I¡¯m back in my car, rehearsing how to tell Oleg that I¡¯ve been keeping secrets while his uncle tries to destroy everything he¡¯s built.

    The speech dies in my throat when I reach the concierge desk at his penthouse tower. The guy working¡ªAlex? Andre?¡ªwaves me over with a sympathetic dip of his graying mustache.

    ¡°Miss Palmer, Mr. Pavlov left a message.¡±

    My stomach drops through the floor. ¡°Oh?¡±

    ¡°He had to leave rather suddenly. Said it was urgent business.¡±

    The world tilts sideways. ¡°Did he say when he¡¯d be back?¡±

    ¡°No, ma¡¯am. But he left this for you.¡±

    The note is tiny. Just a scrap of paper, really. But my hands shake as I unfold it.

    Three words in Oleg¡¯s bold scrawl: Don¡¯t wait up.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 45

    I grip the polished mahogany edge of the conference table, surveying the room. Every seat at the oval table is filled¡­

    ¡­ except one.

    The empty chair seems to mock my uncle¡¯s absence, a stark reminder of the power y I¡¯m about to unleash.

    It¡¯s been days of early mornings andte nights, poring over spreadsheets, surveince footage, IP information. The only time I¡¯ve turned my brain off is when I crash into bed next to Sutton and pull her into me.

    Some nights, we don¡¯t even fuck; we just lie in the dark whispering about everything and nothing at all.

    asionally, I catch something deep in her blue eyes. Something like worry. I want to reassure her, tell her I¡¯ve got things under control.

    But I¡¯ve never been big on falsefort. I don¡¯t want to make any promises until I¡¯m sure.

    Which is why I¡¯m here now.

    Fifteen minutes ago, Iid out my n to Artem. His eyes nearly popped out of his skull when he saw the stack of documents proving Boris¡¯s attempted deal with the Martineks.

    Now, my best friend stands in the corner of the boardroom, arms crossed, a slight smirk ying at his lips.

    He knows what¡¯sing.

    My mother¡¯s phone buzzes on the table in front of her. She reads it and sits tall, her blood-red lipstick a sh of war paint across her sharp features.

    ¡°Boris is on his way.¡±

    A few momentster, the heavy double doors swing open. Boris marches in, nked by his two pet assistants. Hisplexion has the gray pallor of week-old fish left to rot.

    ¡°What is the meaning of this, Oleg? Only I have the authority to call emergency board meetings.¡±

    ¡°Actually, I do as well,¡± Oksana says, rising to her feet.

    Boris¡¯s eyes narrow. ¡°True. But it¡¯s a power you¡¯ve never used before.¡±

    ¡°I suppose I was waiting for a good reason.¡± My mother adjusts her tanpel with precise fingers. ¡°And now, I have one.¡±

    His gaze darts between us. ¡°Was it necessary to involve the entire board in this?¡±

    ¡°They can be the judges of that.¡± My mother¡¯s smile is frozen and jagged. ¡°Take a seat, Boris. Oleg has the floor.¡±

    I don¡¯t wait for him to sit. The stack of documents in my hand might as well be loaded ammunition, and I¡¯m about to start firing.

    This is about thepany. About my future.

    But Sutton is in my head, too. Her shy smile as she kissed me goodbye this morning, the way she breathed my name while I was inside of herst night.

    The thought of her fuels me.

    It¡¯s not just my future I¡¯m fighting for¡­

    It¡¯s ours.

    I clear my throat and begin. ¡°It seems that our CEO has not been entirely transparent with any of us. Pavlov Industries was this close to a deal that none of us had signed off on¡­¡±

    The projector hums to life behind me, numbers flooding the screen. It¡¯s proof that Boris was in the process of putting a bid in on Cordova Group, one of the Martineks¡¯ businesses.

    The second I uncovered the deal, I understood why Boris refused to back my surveince project¡ªall of his money was tied up in this lost cause of apany.

    He was about to throw away everything. Probably because the Martineks have something on him. He had no choice.

    It¡¯s also why Boris¡¯s face is growing grayer by the second.

    He splutters like he¡¯s choking on his own bullshit. ¡°I am the CEO! I have every right to make decisions that will benefit thepany!¡±

    ¡°Except this deal wouldn¡¯t have benefited anyone but our rivals.¡± I gesture to the projector screen, where the numbers tell their own damning story. ¡°Any fool can see buying this asset would have lost us millions.¡±

    ¡°That¡­ You can¡¯t¡­ It¡¯s not clear?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Look at the numbers,¡± I tell the board. ¡°You don¡¯t have to take my word for it.¡±

    ¡°Th-this was an¡­ opportunity¡­ I¡¯ve negotiated down the price and?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Actually, the deal won¡¯t be going through,¡± I announce. ¡°Oksana and I withdrew your offer this morning. Pavlov Industries will not be sinking millions into a rival firm¡¯s failed pet project.¡±

    ¡°You did not?¡ª!¡±

    ¡°We most certainly did.¡± My mother joins me at the head of the table. ¡°My goal has always been the sessful future of thispany. You were about to plunge us into ruin, Boris. I was forced to act.¡±

    ¡°You betrayed me,¡± he hisses.

    I step between them, towering over my uncle¡¯s suddenly diminished shape. ¡°No. You¡¯re the one whomitted the betrayal. Lucky for you, I found out in time to stop the deal.¡±

    My mother ces both hands on the table. ¡°My son not only saved us untold millions, but he also saved ourpany¡¯s reputation.¡±

    Boris opens and closes his mouth like a fish gasping for air.

    Before he can find his voice, my mother turns to the rest of the room. ¡°I propose a new vote.¡±

    I tense, caught off-guard. This wasn¡¯t part of the strategy session this morning.

    ¡°Boris didn¡¯t believe that Oleg¡¯s security system was a worthwhile investment¡ªhe didn¡¯t believe it was the right path forward for Pavlov Industries. But now that you¡¯ve seen the path Boris did choose¡ªthe one he tried to take behind your backs and to your detriment¡ªI think it¡¯s time we make a decision on my son¡¯s dream. Especially now that our cash reserves aren¡¯t tied up in lost causes.¡±

    Well, I¡¯ll be damned.

    ¡°I object!¡± Boris blusters, his jowls quivering. ¡°We already voted on this issue?¡ª¡±

    ¡°And now, I¡¯m calling another vote.¡± My mother¡¯s voice could freeze hell itself. ¡°Oleg and I will adhere to the board¡¯s decision. Will you?¡±

    Boris white-knuckles the table edge. ¡°Th-this is¡­ unnecessary.¡±

    ¡°I suppose we¡¯ll find out.¡± Mother turns to address the board. ¡°All in favor of backing Oleg¡¯s surveince system?¡±

    Hands rise around the table one by one. Even Boris¡¯s most loyal dogs lift their paws. The only hand that stays down belongs to my uncle.

    ¡°This is preposterous?¡ª!¡±

    ¡°You can posture all you want, Uncle,¡± I interrupt. ¡°But the decision has been made. We are officially moving into the twenty-first century.¡±

    Boris lurches to his feet. His re sweeps the room, promising vengeance, before he storms out.

    A ripple of nervousughter breaks the tension. I lock eyes with my mother, giving her a grateful nod. She returns it with the ghost of a smile.

    Victory tastes sweeter than I imagined.

    And all I can think about is sharing it with Sutton.<hr>

    I mean to leave the office early. But one celebratory ss of champagne turns into four, and then the vodkaes in to dance, and hourster, I¡¯m being driven home by Uri because I¡¯m too buzzed to be behind the wheel.

    Still, it¡¯s early enough that Sutton should be awake. I can¡¯t wait to hold her and?¡ª

    But the kitchen is empty. And the living room.

    I¡¯m in too good of a mood to be worried as I walk into our bedroom.

    Then I hear it¡ªsoft, broken sobs filtering through the bathroom door. The sound saws right through my drunken haze. My chest constricts.

    All at once, I know I¡¯d do anything, kill anyone, to make those sounds stop.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 46

    I pause in the doorway of our bedroom, rigid at the sight before me. Sutton is hunched over the vanity, her shoulders trembling as she desperately tries to muffle her sobs.

    My first instinct is to find whoever made her cry and make them bleed. But the rational part of my brain knows it¡¯s not that simple.

    Not when the person causing her pain might be me.

    ¡°Sutton?¡±

    She pulls away from the vanity, hastily wiping her eyes. Her cheeks flush pink as she avoids my gaze in the mirror. The afternoon sun streaming through the windows catches the tears on hershes.

    ¡°Y-you¡¯re home early,¡± she stammers, trying and failing topose herself.

    I cross the room in three long strides. ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±

    She shakes her head, still not meeting my eyes. ¡°You¡¯ll think I¡¯m silly.¡±

    ¡°Try me.¡±

    ¡°I just¡­¡± She draws in a shaky breath. ¡°We¡¯ve only been trying a few months. But¡­¡±

    Realization hits me between the eyes. There is a kernel of disappointment, yes, but nothing thates close to the regret I feel seeing Sutton this upset.

    ¡°You started your period.¡±

    She nods miserably. ¡°I was three dayste. I was so sure¡­ I wanted to tell you this morning, but you¡¯d already left for the office.¡±

    ¡°Fuck.¡± I run a hand through my hair, despising how broken she looks in front of me. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t be. You¡¯ve got things to do, ces to be. Unlike me,¡± she hups. ¡°Who apparently can¡¯t do any of the jobs she¡¯s hired for.¡±

    The self-loathing in her voice makes my jaw clench. I think about the dreams I¡¯ve been havingtely¡ªa little girl with Sutton¡¯s golden hair and my eyes, her tiny hand wrapped around my finger.

    My chest tightens every time I picture it.

    This arrangement is about an heir, about securing my lineage. I can¡¯t let myself think about it being anything else.

    It¡¯s too pure, and my hands are stained with blood.

    ¡°You need to be patient with yourself,¡± I tell her.

    ¡°It¡¯s hard to be patient when I know you¡¯re waiting for me to give you good news.¡± Her eyes finally meet mine in the mirror, swimming with tears. ¡°Like you said, you don¡¯t exactly have time to spare, do you?¡±

    I grit my teeth. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have said that.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m d you did. It¡¯s good to know where you stand.¡±

    ¡°Come here,¡± I extend my hand, fighting to keep my voice even despite the rage building in my chest. Not at her¡ªnever at her¡ªbut at myself, at this whole fucked-up situation.

    I nned toe home and celebrate again with her, but she needs something else from me. Deserves something else.

    She eyes my hand like it might burn her. ¡°I¡­ I¡¯m okay right here.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t make mee get you, princess.¡±

    Her lips start trembling. ¡°If you touch me right now, I¡¯m going to burst into tears.¡±

    ¡°So then burst.¡± I meet her eyes in the mirror, unflinching. ¡°I¡¯ll wipe away every goddamn tear.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not your job.¡±

    That fucking contract. The urge to find it and tear it to shreds nearly overwhelms me.

    Instead, I stalk toward her, my hands going to the buttons of her blouse.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡± she asks, not resisting as I start to strip her with methodical precision.

    ¡°You need to calm down. Since you¡¯re clearly in the mood to fight me on this, we¡¯re starting with a bath.¡±

    She falls silent, letting me undress herpletely. When she¡¯s naked, I guide her to the floating tub and start the water.

    While it fills, I undress efficiently, never taking my eyes off her.

    The vulnerability in her posture makes my chest ache. She looks small, fragile¡ªeverything she¡¯s not.

    My Sutton is a fighter. A survivor.

    I slide into the tub behind her, pulling her back against my chest. She¡¯s stiff at first, her breathing in short bursts that tell me she¡¯s still fighting tears.

    I ignore that and start massaging her scalp, working my fingers through her silk-soft hair until I feel her shoulders start to rx. Thevender-scented steam rises around us.

    ¡°I need to rify something,¡± I say finally, keeping my voice low and controlled. ¡°And I need you to actually hear me this time.¡±

    She tenses again. ¡°Okay.¡±

    ¡°You seem to think I¡¯m disappointed somehow. That you¡¯ve failed me.¡± I tighten my arms around her. ¡°Let me be crystal fucking clear: I¡¯m not, and you haven¡¯t. The only thing disappointing me right now is seeing you tear yourself apart over this.¡±

    ¡°But this weekend on the yacht?¡ª¡±

    ¡°I was an overbearing asshole,¡± I cut her off. ¡°It was a bad day for me. But you pulled me out of it.¡±

    She sniffs. ¡°You¡¯re just being kind.¡±

    I snort, the sound echoing off the marble walls. ¡°That¡¯s something I¡¯ve never been used of before.¡±

    ¡°You like to pretend you¡¯re some unfeeling brute who doesn¡¯t give a shit about other people, but I know that¡¯s not true, Oleg.¡±

    The way she says my name does something to my chest I don¡¯t want to examine too closely.

    ¡°If you can believe that, then believe me when I say I¡¯m not worried about getting pregnant. It will happen when it happens. We just have to be patient.¡±

    She finally rxes fully against me, her head lolling back on my shoulder. I wrap my arms tighter around her.

    ¡°I suppose maybe I¡¯m projecting,¡± she admits quietly. ¡°The thing is, the more I think about getting pregnant, the more I want it. I keep having dreams¡­¡±

    ¡°Tell me about them.¡±

    She sighs. ¡°I keep seeing this beautiful little baby. Gold eyes, like yours. Blonde hair, like mine. The sweetest smile you could imagine.¡±

    ¡°Boy or girl?¡±

    ¡°Boy,¡± she answers without hesitation. ¡°He¡¯s a little heartbreaker.¡±

    ¡°Funny,¡± I murmur against her hair. ¡°I keep seeing a girl.¡±

    ¡°Really?¡± She twists in my arms. ¡°I would have thought you¡¯d want a boy. To carry on the family name and all that gendered bullshit.¡±

    ¡°I should want a boy, for all those reasons. Buttely¡­¡± I pause, the words sticking in my throat. ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking about Oriana.¡±

    She slides her hands over my arms, her touch achingly gentle. ¡°What do you think she would have made of all this?¡±

    ¡°She would have liked you.¡± The admissiones easier than expected. ¡°But she would have called me crazy.¡±

    ¡°Because of the contract?¡±

    ¡°Because of all of it.¡± I stare at the water, our hazy reflections in it. ¡°She was a romantic. Believed in sappy shit like love at first sight and soulmates.¡±

    ¡°But you don¡¯t?¡±

    ¡°No. I¡¯m more practical.¡±

    I have to be. Being anything else is as good as a death sentence.

    I feel her slight exhale, the way her body seems to dete against mine. ¡°I suppose there¡¯s something in being practical,¡± she acknowledges softly. ¡°You don¡¯t get caught up in sentimental gestures.¡±

    ¡°Elise can attest to that.¡± I huff out augh, remembering how angry Oriana and Elise were when I said all of this to them back then.

    My sister called me a ¡°heartless monster.¡±

    We fall silent. There¡¯s just the swish of the water, the easy rumble of my breathing and hers. I can almost hear Sutton¡¯s mind working, weighing whether to ask what she really wants to know.

    ¡°Did you love her?¡±

    I don¡¯t have to ask who she means. ¡°I suppose I did. As well as I could love at eighteen. I can¡¯t tell you if it would havested. But it was real.¡±

    ¡°Then you¡¯re lucky,¡± she whispers, and the brokenness in her voice makes my fists clench under the water. ¡°I¡¯ve never loved any man. And no man has ever loved me.¡±

    Something in my chest cracks open.

    The box that has been burning a hole in my desk drawer is in the pocket of my pants on the floor now. I thought it would be a good idea to give it to her, but now¡­

    Would giving it to her only make her feel worse?

    ¡°Men have wanted me all my life,¡± she says bitterly, speaking softly like she wishes she didn¡¯t have to say it at all. ¡°Ever since I hit puberty, I¡¯ve gotten attention. But no one has ever cared about me. It¡¯s the Palmer curse. We¡¯re desired, never loved.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s bullshit,¡± I growl against her hair. ¡°The Palmer curse is fucking nonsense.¡±

    She shrugs. ¡°Does it matter now? My hands are tied. I signed on the dotted line.¡±

    I reach for my discarded jacket, pulling out the Tiffany box I¡¯d nned to present with more ceremony.

    But fuck ceremony.

    This isn¡¯t about romance.

    It¡¯s about setting things right.

    I snap open the box, revealing the eight-carat blue diamond. ¡°I think it¡¯s time we renegotiated terms.¡±

    She stiffens in my arms. ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°This arrangement between us has¡­ evolved. The old terms don¡¯t fit anymore.¡± I take the ring out, letting the box fall aside. ¡°You¡¯re not my employee, Sutton. You¡¯re my partner.¡±

    She stares down at the ring. ¡°Oleg¡­¡±

    ¡°The old ring was never right. My mother gave it to you; it doesn¡¯t fit. This one¡­¡± I slide it onto her finger. ¡°This one is you. Rare. Valuable. Strong enough to cut through anything.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s too much.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s exactly enough.¡± I close my hand over hers. ¡°New terms. Equal partners. No more hiding behind that fucking contract.¡±

    She examines the ring, tilting it to catch the light. ¡°And if I can¡¯t give you what you want?¡±

    It¡¯s on the tip of my tongue to tell her that everything I want is right here in this tub.

    This is all I¡¯ll ever need.

    Instead, I turn her around to face me, sending waves of water sloshing out onto the tiled floor. ¡°Since meeting you, I think about the future in a new way. I have hope, Sutton. Hope that things will work out.¡±

    Her eyes are watery as she blinks up at me. ¡°Do you mean that?¡±

    ¡°Every word.¡± I nod. ¡°I want you to have hope, too.¡±

    She bites her lip. ¡°I don¡¯t know if I can. It¡¯s nevere easily to me.¡±

    I hook a finger under her chin and draw her a little closer to me. ¡°Then I guess I¡¯ll have to find a way to change that.¡±

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 47

    I¡¯m staring down at my phone as I step out onto the sidewalk outside of Oleg¡¯s apartment building.

    He texted for me to meet him outside, but he hasn¡¯t responded to tell me why.

    I¡¯m about to call him when a sleek red convertible glides to a stop in front of me.

    It¡¯s the kind of car celebrities drive down Rodeo Drive with silk Prada scarves in their hair and oversized sunsses perched on their perfectly sculpted noses.

    My breath catches when I see who¡¯s behind the wheel.

    Oleg is better than any Hollywood heartthrob in a crisp white shirt and dark pants. His scarred face is devastatingly handsome in the afternoon sun. He climbs out, all controlled power and lethal grace, and opens the passenger door.

    It swings up instead of out, because of course it does. Rich people don¡¯t have time for normal doors.

    ¡°Get in.¡±

    ¡°Whose car is this? Where are we going?¡± I nce down at my boring gray t-shirt and jeans. ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯m dressed for?¡ª¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s mine. You¡¯re perfect.¡± His golden eyes soften as he smiles. ¡°And trust me; you are.¡±

    Something flutters in my stomach¡ªanticipation, nervousness, desire. I twist my new engagement ring around my fingers.

    It¡¯s be a habit ever since Oleg gave it to me, like I need to keep reminding myself that it¡¯s there. That he wants this rtionship between us to be something more than just a contract.

    Not love, but something close enough.

    I slide into the buttery leather seat, inhaling that intoxicating new car smell mixed with Oleg¡¯s cologne. The engine purrs to life and we merge into traffic, heading north.

    Palm trees and art deco buildings give way to quieter streets lined with mansions hidden behind borate gates. We pass Artem and Faye¡¯s neighborhood, but keep going until the houses get even bigger, more ptial.

    ¡°Oleg¡­ what is this?¡±

    If this is a surprise party at an oligarch¡¯s house, I¡¯m going to kill him. I¡¯m barely dressed well enough to sit in this car. I can¡¯t be seen like this in public. Oksana would never forgive me.

    Oleg kills the engine andes around to open my door, revealing a huge gate and a looming mansion set way off behind it.

    ¡°This,¡± he exins, ¡°is ours¡­ if you like it.¡±

    ¡°Our what? Like, an Airbnb or something? Are we renting this?¡±

    He snorts. ¡°Do I look like a man who rents things, Sutton?¡±

    I¡¯m still processing his words as we walk up to the entrance, where a man in an impable suit waits to greet us.

    Oleg introduces me to the real estate agent, Andrew Carter, as though this is all perfectly normal. As though dropping by to casually shop for multimillion-dor waterfront properties is just another Tuesday afternoon.

    Oleg is talking through the amenities as Andrew unlocks the front door. ¡°There¡¯s a big backyard on the water with dock ess for me. A nice kitchen for you. Plus, a pool and plenty of bedrooms¡­¡±

    ¡­ for the kids.

    He doesn¡¯t say it, but I hear the words hanging there all the same. This rtionship doesn¡¯t exist without those promised future children.

    Regardless of what Oleg said in the bath the other night, he¡¯s with me for what I agreed to give him.

    Partners though we may be, I still have a job to do.

    This house is going to be my office.

    My head spins as we step inside. The foyer alone is bigger than any ce I ever lived in growing up, with soaring twenty-foot vaulted ceilings and a crystal chandelier. Sunlight streams through the windows, making the white marble floors gleam like fresh snow.

    ¡°What do you think?¡±

    It¡¯s an impossible question to answer. I have no idea what I think.

    There¡¯s something warm and inviting about the house. It feels lived-in. It feels like a ce where children could grow up. Where happy memories could be made. From every window in every room, you can see the brilliant blues of the water and the lush greens of the grass.

    It¡¯s too much. It¡¯s everything I never dared to dream about.

    ¡°Take a look around,¡± Oleg suggests, his hand warm and reassuring on the small of my back. ¡°I¡¯ll catch up with you.¡±

    I wander through the main level in a daze, dragging my fingers along smooth walls and cool stone countertops.

    The kitchen is a chef¡¯s dream, all professional-grade appliances and endless granite workspace.

    A temperature-controlled wine room.

    A library with built-in shelves that reach to the ceiling.

    I climb the sweeping staircase, my footsteps silent on the plush carpet. The upper floor is flooded with natural sun from a skylight, casting leaf-shadow patterns across the hallway.

    Five bedroom doors stand open, beckoning me.

    The first room I peek my head into has a set of bunk beds against the back wall with superhero sheets clinging to the mattresses. A house this big and a couple kids still have to share?

    Get to share, maybe.

    For the first time, I imagine Oleg and I with multiple children. Actual parents to an actual family.

    I pull the door closed.

    Professional art worth what must be hundreds of thousands of dors hangs in the hallway, interspersed with tacked-up crayon drawings. One is of a stick figure holding a dog¡¯s leash. The person and dog both have wide, toothy grins. M-shaped birds fly across a big yellow sun.

    Four more stick figures are lined up on a hill in the back. My family is scrawled in the bottom corner in messy block writing. The F is backwards. It¡¯s utterly adorable.

    Tears prick the backs of my eyes, and I whip around before they can fall.

    I¡¯m being stupid. It¡¯s a kid¡¯s drawing. So what if I never once drew a picture of a happy family like that? So what if I never had anyone to pin my drawings to the walls? I¡¯m an adult. The time for crying about what I never got is long over.

    I move to thest room, pushing open the door in hopes of a beige-painted guest room. Instead, I find a pink paradise. A four-poster bed is hung with gauzy curtains. The vanity in the corner has Broadway-style lights around the mirror. Disney princess posters cover one wall¡ªMoana, Ariel, E.

    I would¡¯ve killed for this bedroom as a kid. Again, the sh of golden eyes and curly hair I¡¯ve been imagining more and more oftentely appears in my mind.

    But it¡¯s more than just an image of our imaginary daughter. The part of the fantasy I left out when I told Oleg was the way I see myself holding her in my arms¡­

    ¡­ and Oleg sitting next to me, his arms wrapped around us, cradling us both to his chest like we¡¯re the most precious things he¡¯s ever had.

    Like we¡¯re all he¡¯s ever wanted.

    Like we¡¯re enough.

    ¡°Am I right in thinking you want dibs on this room?¡±

    Oleg¡¯s voice startles me from behind. I twist around and find him leaning against the doorway, a carefree smile on his face.

    I try to blink the fantasy away before he can sniff it out and p the same expression onto mine.

    ¡°Hot pink bed and princess curtains? It¡¯s every girl¡¯s dream.¡±

    Oleg sees right through me. He always does.

    I turn away to hide my face, but his arms slide around my waist from behind. Just like they did in my fantasy. ¡°What¡¯s wrong, Sutton?¡±

    ¡°Nothing, it¡¯s just¡­¡± I swallow hard. ¡°I never thought I¡¯d have a home like this.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s time to expand that imagination of yours.¡± He presses a kiss to my neck. ¡°All of this can be yours.¡±

    All of it?

    Even you?

    The ring on my finger feels suddenly like an anchor dragging me down. All of this¡ªthe house, his easy smile, the way he can¡¯t seem to go more than a day without surprising me with a ring, flowers, a house¡ªis concrete around my ankles.

    Like I¡¯m being pulled to the bottom of the ocean, with no hope of keeping my head above the waters of reality.

    I pull away, needing space. ¡°It¡¯s too much house. Five bedrooms? Six and a half baths? Who do we need all of that space for?¡±

    ¡°For our future family.¡±

    I wince. Oleg and I might have children. We might be ¡°equals.¡±

    But we¡¯ll never be the happy stick figures on the hill.

    The pool, the dock, and all the shiny things Oleg keeps surprising me with will only ever be the shiny facade disguising the truth.

    I never dreamt something like this could be mine¡­

    ¡­ because it can¡¯t.

    As much as I tell myself I¡¯m different from Sydney, I auctioned my life and happiness away to the highest bidder.

    I¡¯ve made this bed, and now, I have to lie in it.

    ¡°Do you like it?¡± Oleg presses. ¡°Andrew has a few other ces lined up, but I thought this one fit the bill. I knew you¡¯d like the kitchen. Plus, this pink room for?¡ª¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m just happy to have a roof over my head,¡± I mumble, avoiding his eyes. I can feel Oleg¡¯s stare burning a hole in the side of my face, but I refuse to look at him. ¡°If you want the house, get it. It¡¯s your money.¡±

    I don¡¯t wait for his response.

    I just flee down the hallway, leaving him standing there among someone else¡¯s memories, someone else¡¯s perfect life captured in frames that I couldn¡¯t recreate even if I wanted to.

    The sooner I ept that, the better.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 48

    My phone vibrates against the nightstand. A death rattle in the dark.

    The blue glow illuminates Sutton¡¯s sleeping form beside me. She¡¯d tossed and turned most of the night before finally falling asleep. I check the time at the same time I see who¡¯s calling.

    Fuck¡ªOksana at four in the morning.

    It¡¯s toote and too early for my mother to be calling me for any good reason.

    Something¡¯s wrong.

    I slip from the bed, careful not to disturb Sutton, and pad barefoot into the hallway. The marble floor is cold beneath my feet, grounding me in this final surreal moment between sleep and whatever chaos awaits.

    ¡°Maman,¡± I answer, keeping my voice low. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡±

    ¡°We didn¡¯t manage to stop it.¡± Her voice crackles with fury. ¡°The deal went through.¡±

    My brain, still fuzzy with sleep, takes a moment to process her words. ¡°What deal?¡±

    ¡°The deal,¡± she snaps. ¡°Boris¡¯s fucking sunk deal. He went behind our backs. The money¡¯s already changed hands. Hundreds of millions, Oleg. Poured into a failing business.¡±

    My free hand curls into a fist. I have to physically stop myself from putting it through the nearest wall.

    ¡°Jesus Christ,¡± I spit out. ¡°How did you find out?¡±

    ¡°Got a call from Russia. Boris paid forty million over asking price. They jumped on it like sharks to blood.¡±

    Of course they did. Who wouldn¡¯t take free money from a fool?

    The rage building inside me is familiar¡ªan old friend I¡¯ve known since the day I watched my sister burn.

    It demands action.

    Violence.

    Retribution.

    ¡°Meet me at the office in an hour,¡± I tell Oksana. ¡°We¡¯ll regroup there.¡±

    ¡°It might be toote for game ns now, son.¡±

    I nce back toward the bedroom where Sutton sleeps, unaware that our world is shifting beneath our feet. ¡°We¡¯ll see about that.¡±<hr>

    The Pavlov lobby is a tomb at this hour. My footsteps crack against the floor as I stride toward the private elevator.

    The night security guard doesn¡¯t even look up¡ªhe knows better than to question my presence, no matter the hour.

    In stark contrast, my office is already humming with activity when I arrive. Three hackers huddle around theirptops, bathed in the blue glow of their screens.

    ¡°Well?¡± Oksana prowls the space, twitching with fury and caffeine. At this rate, she¡¯ll vibrate through the floor before sunrise.

    Kate¡¯s fingers never stop moving across her keyboard. ¡°This is a process, Ms. Pavlova. These firewalls weren¡¯t built in a day, and they won¡¯te down in one, either.¡±

    Oksana¡¯s heel scrapes against the floor as she spins away without a word.

    An hourter, the orange glow of sunrise is just starting to paint the skyline when Kate¡¯s triumphant cry splits the pre-dawn silence.

    ¡°Aha! Got the bastard!¡±

    We converge on her station. The numbers on her screen tell a story of greed and betrayal in cold, hard digits.

    ¡°Ten times market value,¡± I growl, the words tasting like bile. ¡°He¡¯s not just burning money¡ªhe¡¯s dousing it in gasoline and throwing matches at it.¡±

    But it¡¯s the name attached to the receiving ount that makes my blood run cold.

    Martinek Group.

    The office falls into a silence soplete I can hear the hum of theputers, the soft whisper of the air conditioning, the rapid-fire clicking of Kate¡¯s fingers against keys as she digs deeper into the digital grave Boris has dug for us all.

    ¡°I can¡¯t believe he would do this,¡± Oksana whispers.

    For the first time tonight, I hear real fear beneath her anger. The Martineks aren¡¯t just business rivals¡ªthey¡¯re the bogeymen that have haunted the Pavlov family for generations.

    Kate nces between us, curiosity warring with professional detachment on her face. ¡°The Martineks?¡±

    ¡°The biggest Bratva on this side of the States,¡± I tell her, my voice like gravel in my throat. ¡°And our biggest rival. In business and beyond.¡±

    Oksana backs away from the screens as if they¡¯re contaminated. ¡°Your father spent his life keeping them at bay. Every sacrifice, everyte night, every missed family dinner¡ªall of it was to keep the Martineks from taking what he built.¡± Her voice breaks. ¡°And Boris just handed it to them gift-wrapped.¡±

    I turn away from the damning evidence on the screen, my mind already racing through contingencies.

    There¡¯s always a way out. Always an angle.

    I just have to find it.

    ¡°There has to be some way to reverse this,¡± I say, more to myself than anyone else.

    ¡°The money is gone, Oleg. The only thing left to do is hunt Boris down and kill him.¡± She looks at me. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me you haven¡¯t thought about it.¡±

    ¡°Longer than you have,¡± I admit. ¡°But Boris isn¡¯t stupid. Stubborn, yes. Short-sighted, maybe. But he wouldn¡¯t make a move like this without a reason.¡±

    ¡°Isn¡¯t it obvious? He¡¯s throwing his lot in with the Martineks.¡±

    I shake my head. The pieces don¡¯t fit. ¡°He was CEO and pakhan. Why give that up to be someone else¡¯s errand boy?¡±

    ¡°Boredom?¡±

    ¡°No. There¡¯s something we¡¯re missing.¡±

    Something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

    Something that whispers danger in a voice I¡¯ve learned never to ignore.

    Oksana eyes the coffee cart like it holds the answers to all life¡¯s mysteries. ¡°Fuck, I need a drink,¡± she mutters.

    She strides for the exit¡ªand nearly collides with Artem in the doorway. They exchange terse nods as they pass, and then my oldest friend joins me, his face grave in the artificial light.

    ¡°What do you have for me?¡±

    Please let there be something salvageable in this fucking mess.

    The look on his face tells me there isn¡¯t.

    ¡°Nothing good. Boris has been running a shadow organization. Making moves against you for the past year. Like he knew you wereing for him and wanted to cut you off at the knees.¡±

    My hands curl into fists. ¡°Who?¡±

    ¡°They were behind the motorcycle chase after your engagement party.¡± He pauses, and something in that pause makes my skin crawl. ¡°And one of their members is Drew Anton.¡±

    ¡°I fucking knew it.¡± The vindication is the best feeling I¡¯ve had in hours. But there¡¯s something off in Artem¡¯s tone, something that makes me ask, ¡°How did you find out?¡±

    Artem¡¯s shoulders slump. The look he gives me is part guilt, part resignation. ¡°I did some digging. Based on information Sutton gave me.¡±

    The world stops spinning for a heartbeat.

    ¡°¡­ Sutton?¡±

    He won¡¯t meet my eyes. Not a good sign from a man who¡¯s faced down death at my side. ¡°She¡­ she didn¡¯t tell you?¡±

    There¡¯s a twitch developing in my left eye. ¡°What was she supposed to tell me?¡±

    Artem pulls out his phone. Cues up a video. Hands it to me. ¡°This is surveince footage Sutton found.¡±

    I see Drew Anton on the screen. I¡¯m not sure if it¡¯s the sight of him or Sutton¡¯s name in Artem¡¯s mouth that makes my jaw clench.

    ¡°She found footage of our enemies? How the fuck did she?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Maybe you should talk to her, Oleg.¡±

    ¡°Sutton¡¯s had plenty of chances to talk.¡± My voice is deadly calm now. The kind of calm thates before storms. Before bloodshed. ¡°I¡¯m asking you. What aren¡¯t you telling me?¡±

    ¡°Goddammit.¡± He rakes a hand through his hair. ¡°I thought she¡¯d have told you by now.¡±

    ¡°Artem. Spit it the fuck out.¡±

    He meets my eyes finally, and what I see there makes something cold settle in my chest. ¡°Drew and Sutton have been in regr contact. For months.¡±

    The silence that follows his words is absolute. Complete.

    It is the silence that falls in the eye of a hurricane, when you know the worst is yet toe.

    I stare at Artem for a few silent seconds.

    Then I burst into bitterughter.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 49

    The ocean calls to me.

    It would be so fucking easy to disappear into that endless blue horizon. Nothing but salt air and ghosts forpany.

    Noplications.

    No responsibilities.

    No betrayals.

    But I didn¡¯t build an empire by running from my problems.

    The uneven tap of expensive Italian leather on marble announces Boris¡¯s arrival before he appears. No doubt his bootlicking assistants warned him I was waiting in his office. Probably pissing themselves as they delivered the news.

    I turn away from the window as he sweeps in with his trademark arrogance, a calcted smile stretched across his face. The sickly pallor from ourst board meeting has been reced by his usual ruddyplexion.

    He¡¯s looking far too pleased with himself.

    ¡°Boris.¡± I keep my voice t, controlled.

    He gives me a wide berth as he circles toward his desk. ¡°Nephew, what a nice surprise. Can I offer you anything? Coffee? Perhaps something stronger¡ªvodka?¡±

    My lip curls. ¡°How about an exnation?¡±

    He lets out an affected littleugh as he settles into the leather throne behind his big, antique desk.

    We both know it¡¯s just for show¡ªthe only thing Boris does at that desk is stroke his ego.

    ¡°Really, Oleg. Ask the questions you actually want answers to. Stop wasting both our time with this passive-aggressive dance.¡±

    One clean shot to that smug face would knock him out cold. A little extra force and the sorry bastard might never get up again.

    The thought is far too tempting, especially with the rage still burning in my gut from this morning¡¯s conversation with Artem.

    I force thoughts of Sutton away.

    Not now.

    ¡°You chose to betray thepany, the family, your brother¡¯s legacy¡ªall for what? For power?¡±

    ¡°For what¡¯s rightfully mine,¡± he hisses, dropping the fake smile. ¡°For what I built and maintained after your father¡¯s death.¡±

    ¡°You built nothing.¡± The wordse out as a growl. ¡°You just took credit for his work.¡±

    Boris waves his hand dismissively. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t expect you to understand. You¡¯ve always been more brawn than brains. An arrogant child who feels entitled to Daddy¡¯s empire.¡±

    ¡°I feel entitled to nothing,¡± I spit. ¡°I worked for everything I have. That surveince system?¡ª¡±

    ¡°¡ªis vanity!¡± He cuts me off. ¡°Nothing but an ego trip. Did you really think I would sink millions into a venture concocted by the same reckless fool who got his sister killed? The same tragedy that drove your father to an early grave? You might as well have killed him yourself.¡±

    Ice spreads through my veins, freezing the rage. The usation has always lingered between us, unspoken.

    I thought I was ready for it.

    I was wrong.

    ¡°What happened on that boat was an ident.¡±

    ¡°It was carelessness,¡± Boris snarls. ¡°And it cost two young women their lives. I wasn¡¯t about to let you apply the same brand of carelessness to thepany.¡±

    ¡°So you decided to apply your own brand of idiocy instead?¡± I stalk closer to his desk. ¡°Exin the logic. How is throwing good money at the Martineks¡¯ dead business any different from what you im is a bad investment?¡±

    ¡°The Martineks represent old money, boy. Real power. Their influence extends far beyond what we can touch. I may have lost Pavlov Industries millions today, but I¡¯ve ensured its survival tomorrow.¡±

    ¡°As the Martineks¡¯ puppet?¡± I lean forward, hands braced on his desk. ¡°Or does that not matter as long as you get to pretend you¡¯re still relevant?¡±

    He shrugs, unbothered. ¡°The Martineks offer more than money¡ªthey offer stability. Unlike you, they aren¡¯t vulnerable.¡±

    ¡°How exactly am I vulnerable?¡±

    He emits a sharp, gratingugh. ¡°Look no further than your own bed.¡±

    ¡°Is that a threat?¡±

    ¡°Merely an observation. You¡¯re the one who put yourself at risk the moment you decided to stick your cock in that whore.¡±

    One sweep of my arms sends his pretentious desk ornaments crashing to the floor.

    Boris shrinks back in his chair, knuckles white on the armrests.

    Good. Let him remember who he¡¯s dealing with.

    ¡°Choose your next words carefully,¡± I say softly.

    ¡°Don¡¯t me me for this,¡± he mutters, eyes darting to the door. ¡°The Martineks used the oldest trick¡ªa pretty face and a nice rack. Or did you think Drew Anton and Sutton Palmer stumbled into your life by ident? Did you really think those little boudoir photos went to the wholepany by ident?¡± His confidence grows as he watches my reaction. ¡°And you¡ªa man who prides himself on reading people¡ªfell for itpletely. Hook, line, and sinker.¡±

    I¡¯m silent.

    He senses it and pounces.

    ¡°I had no choice but to make a deal with the Martineks to save us from embarrassment. If you want the full story, ask that pretty little fianc¨¦e of yours.¡± His lips curl. ¡°While you¡¯re at it, have a chat with her boyfriend, too.¡±

    I study him, trying to gauge how far he¡¯ll push this lie to destabilize me. The fucker looks downright gleeful.

    ¡°You¡¯re lying.¡±

    Boris¡¯sugh grates like broken ss. ¡°How touching. She¡¯s really done a number on you, hasn¡¯t she? Such a waste of potential.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re not getting in my head, you old sack of shit.¡±

    His eyes narrow. ¡°You don¡¯t trust me. Understandable, given the circumstances.¡± He unlocks his iPad with a quick swipe. ¡°But if you won¡¯t trust me, trust your own eyes.¡±

    He twists the tablet towards me just as it starts to y.

    The footage is crystal-clear¡ªSutton in the grocery store, dressed in her usual oversized sweatshirt and jeans, blonde hair flowing down her back. She¡¯s standing in front of the freezer section, probably debating what vor ice cream to bring home.

    A hooded figure appears behind her. Her body goes rigid, but she doesn¡¯t move away. Doesn¡¯t try to escape. Instead, their heads lean together in intimate conversation.

    Acid burns up my throat.

    I trusted her.

    Boris pauses the video with a flourish, leaning forward. ¡°Notice the timestamp in the bottom corner.¡±

    I¡¯ve already clocked it. Just weeks ago. Right before I took Sutton to Sardinia.

    Where we spent days talking and nights fucking. Where I let myself believe my feelings for her were real. Where she encouraged me to lower my walls, inch by careful inch¡ªand I took her up on it.

    Was it all orchestrated? A calcted y to break me from the inside so the Martineks could finish what they started?

    Everything slots into ce with sickening rity.

    ¡°If you need more proof¡ª¡± Boris starts.

    My gaze snaps to him and his mouth mps shut. ¡°I don¡¯t need a fucking thing from you.¡±

    I turn and stalk out of his office.

    The ocean calls again as I stride through the building. But I¡¯m not running. Not this time.

    This time, I¡¯ll remember exactly who I am.

    The Beast of Palm Beach didn¡¯t get his nickname by showing mercy.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 50

    It¡¯s been a lonely few days in the apartment. Today is no exception.

    With Oleg working so much, most mornings start by myself.

    I¡¯m trying this new thing where I don¡¯t check my fertility app like a mad woman twenty times a day. They say stress doesn¡¯t make for a conducive baby-making environment.

    Well, I¡¯m going to work to create one.

    Except that somehow¡ªand I don¡¯t know how¡ªmy sense of calm has be intrinsically linked to Oleg¡¯s presence.

    Every time I¡¯m around him I just feel safe.

    When has that ever happened with a man?

    Hell, when has that ever happened, period?

    I can¡¯t stop myself from reaching out to touch the space where he should be. But the sheets are cool to the touch. His indent is fading.

    Little by little, this bed is losing its memory of him.

    I¡¯ve just changed into yoga pants and a positive attitude with vague ns of starting my morning with some sun salutations when I hear the elevator doors beep open. My heartbeat rises instantly, a flush rushing to my cheeks.

    But when I race to the elevator to greet him, my smile dies.

    One look at his face tells me that there will be no swoon-worthy good mornings today. There will be no blueberry scones or shared showers or tea on the balcony.

    Whatever he¡¯s bringing with him today, is going to be painful, not poetic.

    ¡°Oleg?¡± I squeak, staring into those dark gold eyes that are fixed on me with a scowl that I haven¡¯t seen in a long time. ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±

    He brushes past me without answering.

    My heartbeat rises again. But this time, it¡¯s for a whole other reason.

    Feeling a bout of hyperventtioning on, I take a deep breath and follow him into the living room.

    Oleg is standing by the window, staring out at the ocean beyond.

    ¡°Oleg, please,¡± I beg. ¡°What¡¯s wrong? What¡¯s happening?¡±

    He doesn¡¯t face me. ¡°Drew Anton,¡± he rumbles emotionlessly. ¡°Exin.¡±

    My blood drains south so fast I sway on my feet, gripping the back of the couch to stay upright. The room spins slightly at the mention of my ex¡¯s name on Oleg¡¯s lips.

    Two worlds that should never collide, yet somehow have.

    I was a fool not to have told him ages ago, the same day that Artem had told me to tell him everything.

    But he had been so damn busy since then. When would I have done it?

    Excuses, excuses, a little voice in the back of my head sing-songs.

    It¡¯s not wrong.

    I take a half-step towards him, but freeze again when he throws me a look that impales me where I stand.

    ¡°Well¡­¡± I lick my lips but that doesn¡¯t seem to make them any less dry. ¡°¡­ as you know, he¡¯s my ex. We moved to Palm Beach together after he stopped working for Paul Lipovsky. But then we broke up and I¡¯m not sure who he ended up working for. But recently, he moved back to Las Vegas because Paul apparently hired him back. I think?¡ª¡±

    Oleg spins to face me. It takes everything I have not to flinch away.

    ¡°I don¡¯t give a damn about his fucking r¨¦sum¨¨,¡± Oleg snarls as he stalks closer. ¡°I want to know what he is to you. Have you been in contact with him? How often? For how long? Was it his idea to send those pictures to the whole damnpany?¡±

    ¡°No!¡± I gasp, horrified that he would even think such a thing. Although, considering I didn¡¯te clean about Drew from the beginning, I¡¯m on weak footing. ¡°No, of course not. Those photos were never meant to be seen by anyone!¡±

    He snorts. ¡°Or so you im.¡±

    ¡°Yes! Yes, I do im, because it¡¯s true. Those pictures getting sent to the wholepany was a mistake, Oleg. I swear it.¡±

    ¡°And the rest of it? Have you been in contact with him the whole time we¡¯ve been together?¡±

    This time, I do flinch.

    His nostrils re as though I¡¯ve just given him confirmation.

    ¡°No!¡± I yell, grabbing his arm before he can turn away from me.

    ¡°No?¡± he challenges.

    I drop my hand. ¡°I-it¡¯splicated¡­¡±

    But even as I say it, I feel my words trailing off. Because it¡¯s not entirely true, is it? I¡¯ve been keeping secrets. I have been talking to him.

    That¡¯s as ck-and-white as it gets.

    ¡°You have ten fucking seconds to tell me the truth.¡±

    ¡°Y-yes,¡± I force through my teeth. ¡°We have been in contact¡ªbut not for the whole time you and I have been together. The only reason I got back in contact with him at all is because he started working for Paul again and he said he could keep tabs on my sister for me.¡±

    ¡°And you couldn¡¯t have just called your sister and asked how she was doing?¡± he snarls.

    ¡°Sydney¡¯s in an abusive rtionship, Oleg,¡± I sigh. ¡°She¡¯s not honest with me about what¡¯s going on in it. She knows how I feel about Paul. And she¡¯d gone silent on me. Which has always been a sure sign that something is going on between them. Something bad. I wanted to tell you about it; I wanted to ask for your help?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Show me your phone.¡± His tone guts me. ¡°The phone I know he gave you.¡±

    I have no idea how he knows all of this. But now is not the time to ask questions like that. I walk, shaking, into our room and start rummaging around in my underwear drawer.

    But my handse up empty. No matter how hard I scrabble, I can¡¯t seem to find the stupid phone.

    ¡°Where are you?¡± I hiss under my breath. ¡°Come on,e on¡­?¡±

    ¡°Where is it?¡± he demands from behind me.

    He¡¯s not breathing down my neck or anything but it feels like he is. His anger has choked out all the air in the room.

    ¡°I¡­ I can¡¯t find it,¡± I stutter. ¡°It was here; I¡¯m sure I kept it right here. Maybe it fell out or¡­¡±

    ¡°Keep looking,¡± he orders stonily. ¡°I don¡¯t give a fuck for myself. Or for you and me. That no longer matters.¡±

    What is that piercing stab in my chest? Can that be what a breaking heart feels like?

    Struggling for breath, I race over to the big couch I use like a hamper and start riffling through pockets as though my life depends on it.

    It very well might.

    ¡°I-it isn¡¯t here,¡± I cry. ¡°It should be here¡­!¡±

    ¡°Are you lying to me again?¡±

    ¡°No!¡± I exim, twisting around to face him. ¡°I swear, Oleg. The phone should be here. I don¡¯t know where it¡¯s gone. It must have fallen or¡­ I don¡¯t know what could have happened.¡±

    His granite jaw clicks. ¡°What app did you use?¡±

    ¡°App?¡± I repeat stupidly.

    All I can think of is the fertility app I check every morning like a prayer. Surely he can¡¯t be talking about that, right?¡±

    With a grimace, he gestures for me to follow him. Feeling like amb to the ughter, I trudge quietly behind him, trying to think where I might have misced that burner phone.

    If I can only show him what¡¯s on it, he¡¯ll realize that mymunication with Drew was strictly about Sydney and nothing else.

    As soon as we¡¯re in his office, Oleg moves straight to hisptop. His hands move nimbly across the keyboard before he twists the screen towards me.

    ¡°Use your password to log into the cloud. I want to see exactly what you told him.¡±

    Swallowing, I try what I think is my password. Incorrect password shes across the screen. God, does this look bad.

    ¡°Let me guess.¡± Oleg sneers. ¡°You can¡¯t remember any of your passwords. Convenient.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not convenient¡ªit¡¯s the truth!¡±

    ¡°Like identally sending out half-naked pictures of yourself to my whole damnpany was the truth?¡± he scoffs. ¡°Try again.¡±

    His scalding tone lights a fire under me. I wrack my brain and, with a silently uttered prayer, I type in a password.

    YES!

    I manage to ess my WhatsApp ount. But the moment I pull up my text thread with Drew, I realize something is wrong.

    ¡°No¡­¡± I whisper.

    He looks over my shoulder and scowls. ¡°The thread is empty.¡±

    ¡°It wasn¡¯t when Ist checked. I swear to God¡­¡± I¡¯m shivering in his shadow. I¡¯m not even looking right at him but I can feel the fire in his eyes. I shake my head. ¡°It must have been Drew. H-he¡¯s done this to me before. Hacked into my ounts, deleted text messages, erased whole conversations to try and gaslight me into believing whatever he wants me to believe.¡±

    Oleg raises his eyebrows in disgust. ¡°And you expect me to believe that this is the man you chose to go to for help with your sister?¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t go to him, Oleg. He came to me!¡±

    ¡°And you just couldn¡¯t turn away, could you?¡±

    ¡°I should have!¡± I cry. ¡°But I was so worried about Sydney. I did it for my sister. I would never do anything to hurt you, Oleg. Not you or your family or yourpany. Please, you have to believe?¡ª¡±

    ¡°I want you out,¡± he interrupts.

    He doesn¡¯t even have to raise his voice to bring me to my knees.

    ¡°Y-you don¡¯t mean that.¡±

    ¡°I mean every word of it.¡± His lips curl upwards. ¡°I want you out of this apartment by the time I return this evening. Pack your bags. Leave not a trace of yourself behind. My attorneys will work to sever the contract that binds us. Consider it broken. Any contact you try to make with me, with mypany, with anyone connected to me, will be considered harassment and will be punished ordingly.¡±

    ¡°Oleg¡ª¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t!¡± he roars so venomously that my mouth snaps shut. ¡°Don¡¯t you fucking speak my name. The contract was a mistake. You were a mistake. I¡¯m merely cleaning up the mess.¡±

    Then he storms out of the office.

    I stand there, numb and in shock. How could weeks, months of connection have been destroyed sopletely, so quickly?

    Was he the same man who had drawn me a bubble bath and washed my hair when I was sad about not being pregnant?

    Was he the same man who made love to me under the stars out on the open ocean?

    Was he the same man who talked to me about his love for the sister he lost, the one regret he will never get over?

    It seems impossible that a bond that felt so strong could be over so fast.

    Then again, if our bond had been that strong, he would never have believed this of me. He would know what I was capable of and I could never be capable of hurting him.

    As the numbness leaves my body, my legs buckle. My knees hit the floor as I keel over, sobs wracking my body, one after the other.

    What have I done?

    I stay on the floor until my tears dry up. I can¡¯t see much through my puffy eyes, but I draw myself up anyway.

    I take a deep breath.

    And I start to pack.

    This is nothing I haven¡¯t done before. Sydney and I bounced from one foster home to the other. Some, we chose to leave. Others, we were kicked out of. It didn¡¯t really matter in the end because we were always prepared for it.

    None of those ces were home.

    None of those ces felt safe.

    But as I pack, for perhaps the hundredth time in my life, I realize that as familiar as this is, it¡¯s different, too.

    My life has prepared me for this.

    That doesn¡¯t mean it hurts any less.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 51

    I underestimated the Palmer women¡¯s curse. I genuinely thought I could kick it. I really thought there was a way to slink out of its hold once and for all.

    Turns out, all that hope was just the curse hard at work.

    It was the curse, lulling me into a false sense offort before pulling the rug out from underneath me.

    Idiot¡ªthere¡¯s no such thing as curses.

    It¡¯s you¡ªyou¡¯re the problem.

    I blink back tears as I stow away thest of my sweats. I¡¯ve left behind all the gifts that Oleg gave me over thest few months. The ring sits on top of the pile, glinting at me usingly.

    There¡¯s no way I can justify taking it with me. Even if it means starving on the streets, I would rather do that than prove Oleg right by taking anything he¡¯s given me.

    As I walk through the apartment for thest time, my bag slung across one shoulder, I feel the weight of my mistakes hang over me.

    There is no Palmer woman curse. There are just Palmer women and the bad decisions they make.

    I¡¯ve made enough to bury me. Like trusting Drew. Like not telling Oleg about everything straight away. Like signing that stupid contract in the first ce.

    Probably my worst mistake of all, though, was falling for the man who warned me explicitly not to do that.

    What the hell was I thinking, hoping for something more from Oleg? Of course he doesn¡¯t love me. He can¡¯t!

    Of course he didn¡¯t actually want a family with me. He¡¯s incapable!

    Thest few weeks were just a beautiful dream.

    And now, I¡¯ve been forced awake.

    I¡¯m standing on the curb, avoiding the concierge¡¯s pitying eyes, when my Uber pulls up. Pushing back tears, I stare down at the text message on my screen.

    Myst lifeline.

    MARA: Of course you can crash with me. For as long as you need. No questions asked.

    If I could, I¡¯d cry at how good of a friend she is. A better friend than I deserve, honestly.

    But there aren¡¯t many more tears left for me to shed.<hr>

    I feel like I¡¯ve started over in my life more times than a person should have to.

    Some might call it freeing.

    I call it depressing.

    I¡¯ve been pouring over ne tickets and job listings for the past twenty-four hours. Every time I blink, I see wanted ads and airline prices.

    My head is spinning with indecision. Should I go to Vegas and spend a few days with Sydney? It would be great to see her.

    But that would put me right in Drew¡¯s crosshairs. And thanks to the shitshow he¡¯s made of my life, I¡¯m less inclined than ever to be civil if we were to cross paths.

    Not to him.

    Not to Paul.

    Not to all the men in this world who think they can manipte and lie and cheat to get what they want.

    The ironic part is that I don¡¯t include Oleg in that list. He may be as beastly as they say he is, but he¡¯s cut from a different cloth than Paul and Drew.

    My mistake was treating him like them. I should have been honest with him from the beginning.

    My fault. My fault. My fault.

    ¡°Are you still looking at the wanted ads?¡± Mara asks as she walks into the apartment, her cheeks bright pink from the wind.

    ¡°I found something I¡¯m suited for,¡± I tell her with false cheer, pointing to myptop screen. ¡°¡®Busty blonde with poor judgement wanted as mannequin for storefront window.¡¯ Perfect for me, wouldn¡¯t you say?¡±

    Mara sighs. ¡°You¡¯re being hard on yourself.¡±

    ¡°No, I¡¯m not. I¡¯m being fair. I am a busty blonde with poor judgement.¡±

    ¡°Okay, this calls for some serious reinforcements,¡± Mara deres, moving to the fridge.

    ¡°If you¡¯re looking for ice cream, I finished it all around 11:00 A.M. this morning.¡±

    Raising her eyebrows, Mara closes the freezer door. ¡°You could have sent me a text. I would have stopped at the grocery store.¡±

    I just shake my head in embarrassment. ¡°You¡¯re already doing enough for me without wasting your money on ice cream to satisfy my depression.¡±

    ¡°First of all, spending money on ice cream is never wasted. And second of all¡ª¡± She plops onto the bean bag next to the coffee table. ¡°¡ªyou need to get out of this funk and get proactive with your life.¡±

    I point to myptop. ¡°What do you think I¡¯m trying to do here?¡±

    She throws a skeptical look at the wanted ads on my screen. ¡°Found anything good?¡± I open my mouth but she cuts me off at the pass. ¡°And no more mannequin cracks, either.¡±

    I snort. ¡°Damn it. I had a couple more lined up. They were good, too.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t care. I want to hear a legit n from you.¡±

    ¡°My ns haven¡¯t been very sessfultely.¡± I grimace, aware that I sound like a spoiled child. ¡°Maybe instead of Vegas, I should move somewherepletely new. A real fresh start.¡±

    ¡°Move? Where would you even go, boo?¡±

    ¡°Anywhere else,¡± I sigh. ¡°There¡¯s nothing for me here anymore, Mara. The whole of Palm Beach will have been my boudoir shoot by now. No one worth their salt is gonna hire me. And if they do, I probably wouldn¡¯t want to work for them anyway. Las Vegas is full of ex-boyfriends and bad memories. I just¡­ I don¡¯t know what to do.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t give up!¡± Mara insists. ¡°That¡¯s what you should do. You¡¯re acting like it¡¯s all over for you.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t mean to be dramatic,¡± I say dramatically. ¡°But it is.¡±

    ¡°Because you broke up with your boyfriend?¡± Mara balks.

    To her credit, it¡¯s the first time she¡¯s really brought him up. She¡¯d been true to her word about not prying.

    ¡°Come on, Sut; that¡¯s not you.¡±

    ¡°I broke up with my fianc¨¦,¡± I correct. ¡°And also, he broke up with me.¡±

    ¡°Surely there are some nuances to that story.¡±

    ¡°None that matter.¡± I shrug. ¡°It¡¯s just us Palmer women. Can¡¯t keep a good man. Can¡¯t avoid the bad ones.¡± I drop my face into my palms. ¡°I should have known better than to get involved with Drew.¡±

    ¡°Drew?!¡± Mara cries. ¡°Your breakup has something to do with Drew?¡±

    It¡¯s not exactly the truth, but it¡¯s the closest I cane to it without getting my ass sued, so I nod.

    ¡°It was stupid, I know, but hindsight is twenty-twenty. At the time, I was worried about Sydney. So, when he said he was back to working for Paul and he would keep an eye on Sydney for me?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Oh, God.¡± Mara cringes. ¡°He used her to get close to you. Then he fucked up your rtionship with Oleg. That¡¯s ssic.¡±

    ¡°In a nutshell.¡±

    Mara smacks her forehead with the palm of her hand. ¡°I don¡¯t mean to make you feel worse, but you should have known better.¡±

    I nod into my hands. ¡°I know!¡±

    ¡°Fuck,¡± Mara mutters, sidling over to my and wrapping an arm around my shoulder. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, hon.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t be. I¡¯m the one who made the mess in the first ce. Like always.¡± Mara is so quiet that I look up. She¡¯s chewing on her bottom lip, her eyes far away. ¡°¡­ Mar?¡±

    She nces at me nervously. ¡°I, uh¡­ I have something I should probably tell you. I spoke to Oleg a couple of weeks ago.¡±

    A flurry of nerves force me upright. ¡°About?¡±

    ¡°Well¡­ you. You and Drew.¡±

    ¡°What on earth for?¡±

    She sighs. ¡°I take it he didn¡¯t tell you anything. Listen, I¡¯m sorry if you feel I went behind your back, but I was genuinely concerned and I didn¡¯t want to worry you.¡±

    ¡°You are worrying me. Why did you go to Oleg?¡±

    ¡°Because I found a bug on your car, Sutton. And I was pretty sure that Drew was responsible for it.¡±

    My jaw drops. ¡°Exin.¡±

    ¡°I took the car in for a detail and my mechanic found it. He told me that he had it checked out and there was no doubt what it was. Someone was keeping tabs on you and the only person I could think of was the douchebag extraordinaire.¡±

    I lean back against the sofa. ¡°I don¡¯t get it¡­ Why didn¡¯t Oleg tell me this?¡±

    ¡°Maybe because he didn¡¯t want to worry you, either,¡± Mara suggests. ¡°Or because he didn¡¯t think it was Drew.¡±

    ¡°But if it wasn¡¯t Drew, who could it have been?¡±

    We exchange a look. ¡°One thing¡¯s for sure: There¡¯s some shady shit going on here.¡±

    I groan. ¡°Of course there is. Because nothing with my life is ever simple.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Sutton. Maybe I shouldn¡¯t have gone to Oleg at all.¡±

    ¡°No. I understand why you did. I¡¯m not mad at you, Mar¡ªI¡¯m mad at Drew. He¡¯s the only one psychotic enough to do something like this.¡±

    ¡°Maybe you could talk to Oleg,¡± Mara suggests. ¡°Make him see that Drew is just a low-life scam artist who¡¯s manipting the situation.¡±

    I shake my head, Oleg¡¯s livid face still fresh in my mind¡¯s eye. ¡°You didn¡¯t see him. He was so angry. I¡¯ve never seen him like that before.¡±

    ¡°Which only means that he cares about you,¡± she rebuts. ¡°Otherwise, he wouldn¡¯t have been so mad. Or so hurt.¡±

    I bite my lip, resisting the urge to rub my skin raw. ¡°No. It was a mistake to get involved with Oleg.¡±

    ¡°But¡­ you love him.¡±

    I spring backwards, the words whipping across my face, engulfing me in prickly heat.

    ¡°Love him,¡± I murmur, shocked at how those two little words feel on my tongue.

    ¡°Sut, it¡¯s so obvious,¡± Mara says gently. ¡°Yesterday, when you showed up at my doorstep, I¡¯d never seen you look so miserable. And when you broke down?¡ª¡±

    ¡°That was a low point.¡±

    ¡°It was raw. And it was real.¡± She sps my arm. ¡°It¡¯s no weakness to admit that you love him, you know.¡±

    I pull my hand back, gulping back tears. ¡°It was just an emotional day, is all. I¡¯m fine. Oleg made it clear that he never wants to hear from me again and I¡¯m going to respect that choice.¡± I force a limp smile. ¡°Don¡¯t want to turn into Drew, now, do I?¡±

    ¡°Sut¡­¡±

    I pull myself off the ground and walk over to the kitchen. ¡°Let¡¯s have dinner,¡± I say abruptly. ¡°I made salmon and roasted veggies as a thank you for letting me crash.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t have to thank me.¡±

    ¡°Actually, I do,¡± I tell Mara, gripping her arm. ¡°You¡¯ve been like a sister to me through all this. I can¡¯t tell you how much that means to me.¡±

    We sit down at the table and Mara goes to town with the pasta.

    As for me, I sit there and pretend to eat.

    I have to fake as though every mouthful I take doesn¡¯t taste like cardboard.

    If these are the symptoms of a broken heart, I understand why people swear off love.

    It shouldn¡¯t hurt this bad to fall.<hr>

    I wake up the next morning to my fertility app in full bloom.

    Talk about a cruel wake-up call.

    Something about the app nags at the back of my head, but I push it away and force myself into the shower.

    After I get out and get dressed, I send Mara off to work with a hearty omelet, well aware that she¡¯s watching me like I¡¯m a ticking time bomb.

    ¡°I¡¯m okay, Mar,¡± I insist. ¡°I¡¯m not going to jump off the balcony the moment you walk out the door.¡±

    She frowns. ¡°It¡¯s troubling how fast you came up with that.¡±

    Snorting, I pull her te out from underneath her. ¡°Just go to work, okay? I¡¯m going to be fine. I have big ns for today.¡±

    ¡°Which are?¡±

    ¡°Going to the grocery store, cleaning out the fridge, and giving the whole apartment a good once over.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re not my maid or my private chef. You don¡¯t have to do any of that.¡±

    ¡°Nonsense. It¡¯s the least I can do for putting me up.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re friends, Sut. I¡¯d have been happy to put you up even if you hung around in your underwear, ate all my food, and finished all my toilet paper.¡±

    ¡°That reminds me: I need to put toilet paper on the grocery list.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re insane,¡± Mara shakes her head.

    ¡°Very possible. Now, go to work. I don¡¯t want to be used of making youte.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll text youter? Maybe we can go out for dinner or something.¡±

    ¡°Sure,¡± I nod, distracted by the grocery list Mara has pasted on her refrigerator door. ¡°Milk, tampons, eggs, honey, trash bags¡­¡±

    ¡°What was that?¡± Mara calls from the front door.

    ¡°Nothing. Have a good day!¡±

    The moment the door snaps shut, I race to the bathroom, realizing why my fertility app has been bugging me consistently since I woke up.

    My period is due.

    Was due, actually. A few days ago.

    I¡¯dpletely forgotten in the upheaval of everything that¡¯s happened.

    Grabbing one of the pregnancy tests I¡¯ve had on hand since I signed the now-broken contract, I tear off the packaging, my heart jumping into my throat.

    Could it be¡­?

    Once I¡¯m done peeing on the stick, I ce it on the vanity and start pacing the three feet between the mirror and the door.

    Everything feels just a little bit ustrophobic after the airy spaciousness of Oleg¡¯s penthouse.

    But right now, theck of air in my lungs has nothing to do with theck of space.

    How long has it been?

    I count to a hundred. Then I count to another hundred for good measure.

    By the time I finally give myself permission to look at the test, my hands are covered in goosebumps.

    ¡°Here goes nothing,¡± I mutter, opening my eyes, even though, deep down, I know exactly what I¡¯m going to see.

    The sign is bright and clear.

    There¡¯s no denying it.

    I¡¯m pregnant.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 52

    ¡°Blyat¡¯. This doesn¡¯t bode well for them getting back together.¡±

    Artem¡¯s low timbre tells me that he¡¯s worried.

    But not for me.

    I edge close to the door as their voices spill over. I can make out Artem¡¯s bicep and d¡¯s tattooed wrist. They¡¯re standing close together, exchanging information in my fucking office that they don¡¯t want me to know.

    This is what happens when you lose focus.

    This is what happens when you let your head get turned by a doe-eyed actress in a princess dress.

    Because it is clearer to me now than it has ever been: She is a fucking actress.

    No one can be that na?ve, that innocent. That simpering gaze, the shaky lower lips¡ªall one big act.

    I pride myself on being a good judge of character. I pride myself on seeing through people.

    And yet here I am, eating my words, re-evaluating my intuition.

    I fell for it, just like Boris said¡ªhook, line and sinker.

    I smash through the door, sending both men grunting away from it.

    ¡°Oleg!¡± Artem¡¯s eyes are wide. ¡°I didn¡¯t think you¡¯d be in so early.¡±

    He¡¯s justified in thinking that. I haven¡¯t beening to the office early very often ever since a certain blonde seductress fell across my path.

    No¡ªnot fell.

    ced.

    She was ced in my path.

    And instead of kicking her back out of it and striding onward like I should have done, I invited her into my bed.

    I¡¯ll bet sheughed about that with that scumbag boyfriend of hers. Can you believe how easy it was to pull the wool over his eyes?

    Drew fucking Anton.

    To think, I was within strangling distance of the man and I let him live. I should have finished him off when I had the chance.

    Now, I¡¯m forced to fantasize about all the ways I would kill him just to get through the night.

    Gelding him is the front-running fantasy. Maybe I¡¯ll even make Sutton watch.

    ¡°d,¡± I spit, ring daggers at the young lieutenant, ¡°make yourself scarce. I need to have words with Artem.¡±

    ¡°Something wrong, brother?¡± Artem asks casually, recovering fast.

    ¡°Right now, I¡¯m not your brother.¡± I crack my knuckles. ¡°I am your pakhan, your leader, the man you swore fealty to.¡±

    Artem nods curtly, all traces of familiarity disappearing from his face. ¡°Understood, sir.¡±

    ¡°Good. If you don¡¯t hand over any and all information you have on Sutton, then I will fire your ass right fucking now.¡±

    Artem¡¯s eyebrow flickers upwards. His eyes narrow. He surveys me studiously, his fingers twitching at his side.

    ¡°Listen¡ª¡±

    ¡°You do have something on her?¡±

    He sighs. ¡°d just showed up with it.¡±

    ¡°Then you should have informed me right away. It sounded more like you were trying to figure out how to conceal this information from me.¡±

    ¡°Oleg, we both know Sutton?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Are you fucking stupid?¡± I growl. ¡°Are you so deeply under that witch¡¯s spell that you can¡¯t see her for what she really is, even now?¡±

    He hesitates before he says, ¡°I think there¡¯s more to the story than meets the eye.¡±

    ¡°Is this you talking?¡± I demand. ¡°Or Faye?¡±

    He bristles. ¡°I¡¯m speaking for myself here and no one else.¡±

    ¡°Boris handed me proof of what she is. When I confronted her, she didn¡¯t deny it.¡±

    ¡°She did, actually,¡± Artem insists. ¡°She told you why she was in contact with Anton. Isn¡¯t it possible that she?¡ª¡±

    ¡°¡ªmight be telling the truth? Jesus Christ, Artem, do you still believe in Santa us, too?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m trying to help you, brother.¡±

    There¡¯s a small voice in the back of my head advising restraint. I need to put my anger aside and be a leader now.

    But there¡¯s another,rger part of me that wants to take a bite out of anyone who crosses my path.

    Unfortunately for Artem, that¡¯s exactly where he¡¯s found himself.

    ¡°I don¡¯t need your help. I need your obedience. Your loyalty.¡±

    He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. ¡°You have it, Oleg. But part of that deales with honesty. I don¡¯t believe Sutton is a spy. I think if she were, you¡¯d have sussed her out long before now.¡±

    ¡°Are you trying to rub my face in it?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m trying to tell you that your hurt is clouding your judgement.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not hurt,¡± I growl. ¡°I¡¯m pissed off.¡±

    ¡°Oleg¡ª¡±

    I cut him off with a raised hand. ¡°What do you know, Artem? I won¡¯t ask again.¡±

    He runs a hand through his hair, then pulls his phone out of his pocket. ¡°d is running the team that¡¯s trailing Sutton,¡± he exins. ¡°And this morning¡­ This morning, she met with Drew Anton.¡± The words wheeze out as though it¡¯s costing him a lot to tell me.

    My lip twists in a cruel sneer. ¡°And you¡¯re still iming that she¡¯s innocent.¡±

    ¡°You should watch the¡ª¡± He offers me his phone but I p it away so hard that it almost careens out of his hand. ¡°Oleg, there¡¯s more going on here than we know. Maybe you should¡ª¡± He blocks me before I can reach the door. ¡°¡ªcalm the fuck down and think straight for a second. And if you can¡¯t think straight, then at least listen to someone who can. There¡¯s more than one side to this story.¡±

    I stop, but only so I can whip around and re at him head-on.

    ¡°Why? So you can plead Sutton¡¯s case for her? Sure, there may well be eighteen fucking sides to this story¡ªbut I have neither the time nor the inclination to sort through them all. Boris is currently trying to run us into the ground. We might wake up tomorrow to a Martinek takeover, with a Martinek boss overseeing us. Is that what you want?¡±

    ¡°Of course that¡¯s not?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Then why the fuck are you still fighting me on this?¡±

    Artem has never looked so exhausted. ¡°Christ, Oleg. I¡¯m not fighting you at all. We¡¯re on the same side, remember?¡± He exhales again, miserable. ¡°But considering we¡¯re operating with very little intel, it makes sense to be cautious rather than reckless. You go in guns zing and it might feed right into the Martineks¡¯ hands.¡±

    ¡°If you have a n, say it. Otherwise, get the fuck out of my way.¡±

    ¡°Bring Sutton in,¡± he says with a gulp. ¡°Find out what she knows.¡±

    Teeth grinding, I twist around so that Artem can¡¯t see the vein I can feel trying to burst through my forehead.

    It¡¯s a fair suggestion. Reasonable. Cautious, like he said.

    But I can¡¯t imagine seeing Sutton just now, let alone talking to her.

    Even if she does talk, how can I believe a single word thates out of her mouth?

    The only thing I am sure of is that it¡¯s over between us.

    The one small silver lining is that I found out about all this before I knocked her up with my heir. At least now, I can break the contract clean.

    ¡°Maybeter,¡± I agree, if only to cate Artem for the time being. ¡°For now, I have more important matters to deal with.¡±

    I push past him and stride toward my mother¡¯s office on the opposite side of the floor. Ever since we found out about Boris, she¡¯s been practically living on the premises.

    I walk in without knocking. She¡¯s standing between her lounge and her desk, clearly mid-pace. She¡¯s holding a French cigarette nted elegantly between her fingers. Smoke whirls around her face in a delicate plume.

    ¡°It¡¯s a bit early for a smoke, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    ¡°Considering the shit your uncle has mired us in, I think not.¡± She lifts one perfect eyebrow. ¡°To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s over,¡± I rumble, ripping off the Band-Aid off in one go. ¡°Sutton and I. We¡¯re done. The contract is broken and our arrangement is at an end.¡±

    Oksana doesn¡¯t say a word.

    Not the reaction I was expecting.

    ¡°I thought you¡¯d be happy,¡± I remark.

    ¡°What makes you think I¡¯m not?¡±

    ¡°For one, I expected an ¡®I told you so.¡¯¡±

    She purses her lips and tosses her perfectly dyed mane of hair back over her shoulder. ¡°Do you think me so cold?¡±

    ¡°Yes, and I happen to believe it¡¯s one of your best qualities.¡±

    She narrows her eyes. ¡°You¡¯re being sarcastic now. I take it that you¡¯re not happy about the state of affairs?¡±

    ¡°On the contrary, I¡¯m exceedingly happy not to have a conniving snake carrying my child.¡±

    Oksana¡¯s jaw drops. ¡°What?¡ª¡±

    I hold up my hand. ¡°I¡¯m not here forfort or advice. I feel nothing about the contract breaking. I came here to tell you that you win.¡±

    ¡°I¡­ win?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s right. You win. You can find me a suitable girl. I will marry anyone you suggest, no questions asked.¡±

    Her carefullyposed mask wobbles. ¡°Oleg¡­ are you serious?¡±

    I meet her gaze and for the first time, I see her coldness reflected back at me in the ck pits of her eyes. ¡°Yes, Maman. I am.¡±

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 53

    I¡¯m losing the baby.

    There¡¯s a tragic poetry to it, really. I¡¯ve lost the father; why not the baby, too?

    But despite my body and mind telling me that perhaps this is the universe¡¯s way of saying that Oleg and I were never meant to be, my heart and soul are telling me something else entirely.

    I want this baby.

    I can¡¯t lose it.

    Please don¡¯t let me lose it.

    I stare down at the text Mara sent me fifteen minutes ago,plete with a smiley face and a bunch of heart emojis. Mara¡¯s not an emoji texter. The fact that I¡¯ve gotten so many is a surefire sign that she¡¯s worried about me.

    She doesn¡¯t know about the pregnancy, though.

    She doesn¡¯t know about the bleeding that started sometime in the middle ofst night.

    Just a few red spots to start with. I¡¯d written it off as stress.

    But then this morning, there were more spots. Bright red. Almost blinding.

    I¡¯d scoured the inte but it did nothing to calm me down. Breakthrough bleeding isn¡¯t always serious. But it can be.

    It can be.

    And that¡¯s enough to send me on a downward spiral.

    MARA: Hey hon. You doing okay? ?? How about we grab lunch during my work break? I think you need an outing. <3 <3

    Maybe an outing can counteract my downward spiral. Maybe some fresh air and a walk is all I need to alleviate the burning in my chest.

    I probably should see a doctor, but for some reason, if it¡¯s bad, I don¡¯t want to know just yet.

    At least I can stay pregnant for a few more hours.

    SUTTON: How about the smoothie bar? I¡¯m gonna head over there in a bit. Join me whenever you¡¯re on your break.

    I grab my bag and make the ten-minute walk to the smoothie bar. It¡¯s a balmy day, the breeze riffling through my hair like warm fingers. Every corner I turn, I feel as though someone is watching me.

    At least I know it¡¯s not Oleg.

    Every time I blink, I can see his face¡ªthe heartless way he looked away from me as he ordered me out of his home and his life.

    Was it ever a possibility that we would live in that gorgeous mansion by the water?

    Was raising a family there together ever real?

    It feels like some sort of cruel joke. A carrot the universe dangled in front of me before taking it back.

    Silly, stupid Sutton. That kind of life is not for grubby little orphan girls with no family and no future.

    You¡¯re a Palmer Woman, remember? You don¡¯t get things that nice.

    I blink back tears as I make thest turn to the smoothie bar.

    My hand falls instinctively over my stomach. I can¡¯t be losing this baby. Not when I can feel him or her so deeply inside me.

    Surely, that has to mean something.

    Surely, it means that the universe, in all its viciousness, is offering me this one constion prize.

    You will never have everything, but you will give everything to your child.

    My feet hit the pavement in a steady click-ck, click-ck. And with every step, I can hear it echoed in someone else¡¯s.

    I turn twice, just to make sure I¡¯m not being followed but there¡¯s no one behind me except for a startled olddy who starts walking in the opposite direction the second time I nce behind my shoulder.

    Great. I¡¯m scaring olddies now.

    Feels like a fitting conclusion to my transformation from loser to total loser.

    When I get to the smoothie bar, I make straight for the counter, ce my order, and shuffle off to find a table by the window.

    I haven¡¯t been seated five seconds before a tall, hooded figure slips into the seat opposite mine.

    The stench on him is sweat and Creed Aventus; I recoil instantly.

    Drew grabs my arm, nails digging into my wrist so that I¡¯m forced to stay in my seat. ¡°Don¡¯t be silly, baby, it¡¯s just me.¡±

    ¡°Let. Go. Of. Me.¡± I enunciate every damn word.

    He just grins. ¡°Come on now, don¡¯t be like that.¡±

    ¡°If you don¡¯t let go of me right this instant, I¡¯m going to scream bloody murder.¡±

    He looks amused. ¡°Would you?¡±

    I steal a breath, ready to make good on my threat, when he releases my hand as though it¡¯s just caught on fire.

    ¡°Jesus Christ, don¡¯t scream,¡± he grumbles. ¡°I just wanna talk.¡±

    If only I had my smoothie. I would have thrown it full in his face. I just can¡¯t catch a break recently. ¡°I have nothing to say to you.¡±

    ¡°Actually, that suits me just fine, because I have shit I need to say to you.¡±

    ¡°Of course you do.¡± I roll my eyes. ¡°You love the sound of your own voice.¡±

    He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. ¡°I don¡¯t know where you get off being so snotty. I did you a fucking favor.¡±

    ¡°A favor?!¡± My screech earns me a few looks from the neighboring tables. ¡°Are you delusional or just in stupid? Youpletely ruined?¡ª¡±

    I break off. What do I say? I can¡¯t im to have had a rtionship with Oleg. It was fake right from the beginning. A cordial agreement, but an agreement nheless.

    So I settle for saying, ¡°¡ªeverything. You ruined everything!¡±

    ¡°I saved your ass,¡± he retorts, the smile sliding off his face. ¡°You were in over your head with that Russian fuck. I had to get you out.¡±

    ¡°By lying to me? Using me? Manipting me?¡±

    ¡°Hate to break it to you, baby, but you understand that a lot better than you understand an honest conversation.¡±

    My cheeks heat. I need something in my hands. A weapon. Sharp, preferably. I could use a knife or fork to jab him in the eye.

    At this rate, I¡¯ll gouge him with my fingers if I have to.

    ¡°How dare?¡ª¡±

    ¡°Oleg Pavlov is a ruthless motherfucker. And he¡¯s got a shitstorming his way. I¡¯m talking about the kind of shitstorm he can¡¯t get out of.¡±

    My fingers tense on the edge of my seat. ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    He breezes right past my question. ¡°Listen, I get it, okay? I understand why you would go for a guy like him. Mr. Moneybags probably pulled out all the stops. But throwing around money is easy for a man who¡¯s drowning in it.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not why?¡ª¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s going down, baby. And if you stayed engaged to him, you¡¯d have gone down with him. I saved you. And I¡¯m gonna keep saving you no matter what.¡±

    I can only shake my head. ¡°You¡¯re insane.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t you see how much I care about you, Sutton?¡± he croons, his hand twitching towards mine. I pull my arms out of reach. ¡°I¡¯m so much better for you than that egotistical asshole will ever be. We were so good together, the perfect team.¡±

    I want to tell him to go fuck himself, but my throat is tight and the world is wobbly at the edges. Even speaking feels like more effort than I can make.

    He sighs. ¡°Listen, if it makes you feel any better, I forgive you.¡±

    My jaw drops. I swallow air.

    But at least I finally find my voice. ¡°Excuse me?!¡±

    He nods. ¡°That¡¯s right. I forgive you for being with him. He gave you security and I know how much you Palmer girls value security. But I can give you that, too, now. I¡¯ming up in the world, baby. And Oleg is going down.¡±

    If my stomach weren¡¯t empty, I¡¯d be fighting back the urge to throw up. ¡°Drew¡­¡±

    ¡°Yes, baby?¡± He smiles as though he¡¯s certain of what I¡¯m about to say.

    I speak slowly and calmly, hoping that will convey to him just how serious I am. ¡°What is it going to take to get you the fuck out of my life?¡±

    His eyebrows tline. ¡°You don¡¯t really mean that.¡±

    ¡°You want money?¡± I persist unblinkingly. ¡°You want me to shout it from the rooftops? You want me to put a grass skirt on and do a rain dance? You want me to call the cops and get a restraining order? Because whatever it is, I¡¯ll freaking do it.¡±

    He lets out a grating hiss from the back of his throat. ¡°Honestly, so fucking dramatic. As always. You and your sister have that inmon.¡±

    ¡°You know nothing about me or my sister.¡±

    ¡°Need I remind you that I¡¯ve spent a lot more time with her these past few weeks than you have?¡± His eyes narrow into furious slits. ¡°Figures that you would get yourself a sugar daddy and forget the people who were around for you from the beginning.¡±

    I dig my nails into the cushion of my chair. He¡¯s trying to snake me into a conversation about Sydney and I absolutely refuse to fall for the same ruse twice.

    ¡°You really need to leave, Drew.¡±

    ¡°I love you, Sutton!¡± he cries, mming his fist down on the table. ¡°And I know you love me. Whether you admit it or not.¡±

    I burst outughing. ¡°Are you for real?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re just in denial. You¡¯ll see. You¡¯ll get it soon.¡±

    ¡°I had no intention of discussing my rtionship with Oleg with you, Drew, but in this case, I¡¯m willing to make an exception.¡± My eyes zero in on him. ¡°Being with Oleg made me realize how pathetic, superficial, and unhealthy our rtionship was. There was nothing between us, Drew. Not then and definitely not now. You don¡¯t love me and I don¡¯t love you. I never did. I never will.¡±

    He gapes at me, his eyebrows knitting together at the bridge. Little does he know that the joke¡¯s on me.

    Because apparently, my fake rtionship was more real and more meaningful to me than a real one.

    I¡¯m expecting rage. I¡¯m expecting him to make a scene, the way he always used to.

    What I get instead is¡­

    ¡°Well, I¡¯m not giving up on you.¡±

    I¡¯m pretty sure my eyebrows disappear into my hairline. ¡°What?¡±

    He nods as though he¡¯s bestowing me with some great gift. ¡°Yeah. You¡¯re confused now. You¡¯re pissed at me. But you need me, baby. And I¡¯ve got a lot to offer. I¡¯m gonna be making real money soon. Enough to keep you like a princess.¡± My heart shudders at the mere mention of Oleg¡¯s nickname for me. ¡°Sooner orter, you¡¯re going to realize how much you care about me, about our rtionship. I just have to be patient. I can be patient.¡±

    I can only gawk at Drew, wondering if he was always this delusional or if this is a recent development.

    Although¡­

    Maybe, if he¡¯s desperate enough, I can use his delusion to my advantage?

    ¡°You like deals,¡± I start, trying to find the right words to sweeten the proposition I¡¯m about to make. ¡°I¡¯ve got a deal for you.¡±

    ¡°Do tell.¡± Drew nods, leaning in.

    I have to freeze in ce to keep my body from reacting to his proximity. ¡°I¡¯lle back to you.¡± His face breaks into a delighted smile before I add, ¡°¡ªon one condition.¡±

    The smile falters slightly. ¡°Which is what?¡±

    ¡°You have to speak to Oleg and tell him the truth. I want you to tell him what we¡¯ve really beenmunicating about for thest few weeks. He needs to know that the only thing we ever discussed was Sydney.¡±

    The moment the offer is out of my mouth, I know it¡¯ll never work.

    For one, there¡¯s no way Drew will believe that I¡¯m serious abouting back to him.

    For another, the reason I want to clear things up with Oleg is ringly obvious and stered across my face for the world to see.

    Drew¡¯s grimace confirms it. ¡°You really want that fucker back? Even after he kicked you out like yesterday¡¯s garbage?¡± His sneer morphs into a wicked smile. ¡°You know what? No deal. I like things exactly the way they are. Even if you refuse toe back to me, I¡¯m happy knowing that he thinks you¡¯re my whore.¡±

    ¡°You bastard!¡±

    He justughs, all the charm abandoning his face in one go.

    I¡¯m a fool for sitting here as long as I have. Grabbing my purse, I rip out of my seat and make straight for the door, ignoring the clerk calling out my order.

    But Drew can¡¯t even let me have a clean exit. He follows me outside.

    Grabbing my arm, he drags me to the back of a nearby alley, right next to the garbage cans.

    ¡°What the hell?!¡± I scream, trying to wrest free of his hold. ¡°Let me go!¡±

    ¡°Jesus Christ,¡± Drew roars. ¡°Why do you have to be so damn difficult all the time?¡±

    He throws me against the wall. I cry out involuntarily at the sharp bloom of pain as my tailbone hits the rough brick.

    When I catch my breath, I look up at him through the hair fallen over my eyes. ¡°You¡¯re a piece of shit, Drew Anton. What happened to loving me, huh? What happened to protecting me? To neverying a hand on me? What happened to never wanting to be like your dad?¡±

    He was drunk when he shared that little Drew Anton Fun Fact with me. Drunk and vulnerable and snotting into my skirt like a frightened schoolboy clinging to his mama.

    But it¡¯s clear from the re in his eyes that he remembers.

    He just doesn¡¯t like being reminded of it.

    ¡°Don¡¯t talk about my father,¡± he growls. ¡°You know nothing about that.¡±

    ¡°I know more than you think,¡± I press on, aware of the risk I¡¯m taking. ¡°I know that your father was a bully. I know you were scared of him. I know that, as much as you didn¡¯t want to be like him¡­ that¡¯s exactly what you¡¯re bing.¡±

    He takes a step forward, forcing me against the brick wall again.

    He¡¯s done this before. The physical intimidation. The cold sneer. The unspoken threat of violence.

    ¡°Why the fuck do you have to be like this? I¡¯m only trying to make you happy.¡±

    ¡°You can make me happy by leaving me alone, Drew. Please!¡±

    His tongue darts over his lower lip. He nces over at the street. A couple of people are milling about. I have no idea what¡¯s going on in his head and it freaks me the hell out.

    ¡°I know what¡¯s best for you,¡± he decides confidently, grabbing my hand. ¡°Juste with?¡ª¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m pregnant!¡±

    I don¡¯t mean to say it. It just bursts out of me, ast-ditch attempt to get rid of this man once and for all.

    He pauses, mmy fingers still mped around mine. ¡°Wh-what?¡±

    I nod, studying the shocked lines of his face. ¡°Yes. I¡¯m pregnant. Oleg is the father. That¡¯s why we can¡¯t be together.¡±

    His gaze drips down to my stomach. He shakes his head. ¡°No. No, it can¡¯t be.¡±

    ¡°I assure you it is. I¡¯m pregnant with another man¡¯s child, Drew.¡±

    He grinds his teeth together, twisting around for a brief moment so that all I can see is the steady rise and fall of his shoulders.

    When he turns back, he¡¯s pale. His eyes are zed over, as though he¡¯s far away.

    ¡°Drew¡­?¡±

    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter.¡± He shakes his head and says it again. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter. You¡¯re pregnant and alone. You need someone to take care of you. You and the baby. And since you clearly can¡¯t be trusted to make the right choices, I¡¯ll have to make them for you. Whether you like it or?¡ª¡±

    ¡°No, you fucking asshole, get off of?¡ª¡±

    I catch only a glimmer of movement.

    Then I feel a sting so sharp that my vision goes dark.

    I try to shake it off, but the world has exploded in dark little stars. I sag against the dumpster, which is the only thing that keeps me from plummeting to the ground.

    He hit me.

    He hit me.

    I can still only see vague, blurry outlines. Drew stands over me, huge, horrible, staring at his hand like it acted without his permission.

    Then, with a horrified, cowardly whimper, he turns his back to what he just did and runs.

    His outline blurs into the mouth of the alley and disappears.

    I taste blood.

    My face aches.

    Maybe this is how it was always meant to be.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 54

    I wish I could say I went straight to the police. Aren¡¯t they supposed to protect women like me from men like him?

    But I saw my mom try that enough growing up. It never went well for her. Why would it go well for me?

    Even more embarrassing is that my second thought was to call Oleg. I can only imagine how horribly that would turn out.

    ME: Oleg, I¡¯m so sorry to call like this. But my psycho ex, the one that framed me and caused our break up¡ªyeah, that one. He cornered me again and pped the shit out of me for refusing to pass your child off as his.

    OLEG: Get the fuck away from me, liar.

    ME: Please don¡¯t do this. I care about you.

    OLEG: Your mistake. Our contract was never about feelings. I wanted your womb, not your heart.

    ME: But what about your baby?

    OLEG: How do I even know it¡¯s mine? For all I know, this is another ploy that you¡¯ve cooked up with your boyfriend to try to steal from me. You¡¯re no princess. You¡¯re just a peasant ying pretend.

    Back at Mara¡¯s, I pace up and down, feeling as though the noose around my neck is tightening.

    I know with absolute certainty now that Drew isn¡¯t just going to let me go. If another man¡¯s baby wasn¡¯t enough to make him lose interest, I¡¯m not sure what will.

    I jump a foot when my phone buzzes with an iing message.

    DREW: Hey, that went really wrong. I¡¯m sorry. I didn¡¯t mean to hit you.

    My heart clunks loudly against my ribcage. This must be a new record. He doesn¡¯t usually apologize until the next morning.

    I probably should leave well enough alone. Ignore him. Block him. Delete the fucker from my phone and my life.

    But since that hasn¡¯t worked for me so far, I try a different approach.

    SUTTON: You didn¡¯t mean to hit me? So your hand just slipped, is that it? Or maybe my face was just in the way?

    DREW: Don¡¯t be a child. You were goading me. My anger got the better of me.

    It¡¯s ssic Drew. An apology with a side of me.

    DREW: The least you can do now is forgive me.

    SUTTON: Uh-huh. And while we¡¯re at it, what else would you like from me?

    He swerves around the sarcasm, his responseing as fast as his getaway back in the alley.

    DREW: I¡¯m not a petty person, Sutton. I still want you back. But I¡¯ve thought about it and I have conditions.

    The man must genuinely be a few screws loose in the head. He seems to think, even after everything that¡¯s happened, that I¡¯m the one in need of saving.

    That he¡¯s the knight in shining armor, ready to make sacrifices to save me.

    I sink to the sofa as the three little typing dots keep running in quick session at the bottom of the thread.

    At this stage, I¡¯m genuinely curious about what conditions he¡¯s going to ask for.

    My undying loyalty, perhaps?

    My life¡¯s blood?

    A massive tattoo of his face?

    DREW: It¡¯s really simple, baby, and it¡¯s in your best interests toply. We can have everything. We can be happy. All you have to do is get rid of the baby.

    I go cold the instant I read those horrifying words.

    DREW: You can live with me, in our townhouse. It¡¯s where you belong. We can finally have the life we always nned on having. I want you to move in there as soon as possible. Today, in fact.

    He¡¯s insane, is all I can think.

    But his messages areing in fast now, sending shock after shock ripping down my spine.

    I can exin away his madness, call him insane,ugh in his face. But every single word of his texts resonates with seriousness.

    I mayugh¡ªbut he sure as hell isn¡¯t joking.

    DREW: I¡¯ll give you an hour to get your things together.

    SUTTON: Or what?

    DREW: Or I will go straight to Pavlov Industries and demand to speak to that scarred beast you seem to care so much about. I will give him the sex tapes I made of us during our time together.

    Goosebumps riddle my body. He¡¯s lying; he has to be. There is no way he has sex tapes of the two of us.

    SUTTON: You filmed us? Without my consent?

    DREW: Don¡¯t worry, baby¡ªyour performance is excellent.

    SUTTON: What is wrong with you? What is the point of this?

    DREW: If he doesn¡¯t pay me off for those sex tapes, then I¡¯ll release them to the public and get the price I want anyway. But if you just listen to me now, no one has to see them. Except us, of course. ??

    My stomach roils with disgust.

    Somehow, he¡¯s got me backed into a corner. A corner I might have cowered into if he hadn¡¯t just ordered me to get rid of my baby.

    I will not do that.

    Not for him.

    Not for Oleg.

    Not for anyone.

    Stumbling over to the kitchen sink, I run the tap as cold as it will go and ssh water onto my face. It helps a bit, so I do it again, and again.

    When I finally lift my gaze to the window, my eyes fall on a familiar Ford Mustang parked across the street.

    Flying upright, I realize that I¡¯m staring right at Drew. He¡¯s leaning against the passenger door of the Mustang, staring right up at my window.

    We make eye contact.

    He smiles.

    Then he starts typing into his phone.

    DREW: What¡¯s it gonna be, baby?

    DREW: I¡¯ll wait for your answer out here. Don¡¯t take too long.

    I¡¯m far away from the window but it still feels like he can see me, whatever I do. It doesn¡¯t seem to matter what I do or where I go¡ªDrew Anton will follow me like a bad smell.

    But that doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯m not gonna try.

    I have to¡ªfor my baby¡¯s sake.

    I sneak downstairs to the ground floor of Mara¡¯s apartment building. Then I take the back way out, painfully aware that this is the second time in a week that I¡¯ve been forced to leave my refuge.

    Maybe that¡¯s my lot in life.

    Maybe I¡¯m destined to spend it running.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 55

    It was a mistake taking the boat out.

    Everywhere I look, there¡¯s a freshly minted memory of Sutton.

    The bow where we¡¯d fucked for the first time. The railing I¡¯d bent her over. The suites where we¡¯d spent long nights sitting up and talking.

    The whole yacht even smells of her.

    I actually find a fine, blonde hair curled around the railing on the stern. Instead of doing the rational thing and throwing it into the ocean, I unwind it from the railing and keep it curled around my finger.

    I¡¯d call it a new low.

    But when you watch the ocean swallow the lives of the two people you care about most in this world, nothing ever that ever feels quite so low again.

    Their voices carry over to me in the wind. Elise and Oriana, whispering in my ear like they always do.

    But now, there¡¯s a third voice in the mix.

    Sutton¡¯s.

    It was a mistake to have brought her out on this yacht. I let her into a ce she never should¡¯ve intruded. I¡¯ve gone and robbed myself of the one space I go to get some peace of mind.

    I check my phone again, but I haven¡¯t heard anything from anyone. Not Sutton. Not Artem. Not even Oksana.

    I expected to have my phone inundated with messages from my mother, each offering up a different woman for me.

    It all stays silent. Just the wind and the voices carried on it that I can¡¯t quite decipher.

    I spend another hour out on the water, just to see if I can manage to shake off Sutton¡¯s presence. When it¡¯s clear that this is simply a more concentrated form of torture, I pilot the yacht around and make fornd.

    I¡¯m just mooring when I see a tall figure step onto the dock.

    Artem.

    He¡¯s standing patiently, waiting for me as I jump down off the boat.

    ¡°I warn you,¡± I tell him, ¡°giving me bad news right now might mean a dip in the harbor.¡±

    He gives me a tame, sorrowful grin. ¡°I¡¯ll risk it. There¡¯s something you should know.¡±

    Gritting my teeth, I twist around and duck back into the vessel to make sure I¡¯ve shut everything down. Artem follows.

    ¡°Brother, I think this is serious.¡±

    ¡°It usually is,¡± I say. ¡°But if it has anything to do with Sutton, I¡¯m not interested.¡±

    ¡°Even if she¡¯s in danger?¡±

    My muscles tense immediately. Nostrils ring, I turn my back on Artem so that he can¡¯t read my face. ¡°If she¡¯s in danger, it¡¯s because she asked for it. That¡¯s what you get when you throw your lot in with scum like Drew Anton.¡±

    ¡°You can¡¯t honestly be that cold.¡±

    I twist around, causing Artem to run right into me. ¡°You were this close to getting an apology out of me,¡± I grit. ¡°Don¡¯t ruin it now.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t want an apology,¡± Artem insists. ¡°What I want is for you to listen to me. Sutton texted me a little while ago. She sounded panicked.¡±

    I shouldn¡¯t ask. I don¡¯t want to, but I hear myself do it anyway. ¡°What did she say?¡±

    ¡°She told me to check on Mara.¡± He pushes his phone into my hand.

    SUTTON: Artem, I know I shouldn¡¯t be contacting you but I have no other choice.

    SUTTON: I wouldn¡¯t ask unless it was really important. Can you please check on Mara for me? Mara Bettis. I have reason to believe she could be in danger.

    ARTEM: What¡¯s going on, Sutton? Where are you?

    SUTTON: It doesn¡¯t matter about me. I just need to make sure Mara is okay. I had to leave her ce quickly and I didn¡¯t have time to exin.

    ARTEM: An exnation sounds pretty good right about now.

    My gaze pivots to Artem. ¡°She hasn¡¯t replied.¡±

    ¡°No, she hasn¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°Where is she now? Didn¡¯t you have men tailing her?¡±

    ¡°I did. Thest sighting was when she made her way over to Mara¡¯s ce, hours ago now. It seems that Drew was tailing her the entire time.¡±

    Artem pulls up some images on his phone and shows them to me. It features Sutton, walking down a street, her face turned to the side, disying a fresh bruise that¡¯s turned her pale skin a vibrant shade of purple.

    ¡°What the fuck?¡± I say, rage curling its way through my fingers until they tighten into fists.

    ¡°Apparently, she was osted by Anton in a smoothie bar.¡±

    ¡°He did that to her?¡±

    ¡°Well, she didn¡¯t have that bruise when she walked in.¡±

    ¡°FUCK!¡± I explode.

    I twist around and punch my fist into the closest surface. My hand erupts in pain, but I wee the sting.

    It¡¯s better than this helpless feeling churning in my gut.

    ¡°Hey, brother, save that for the people who really deserve it,¡± Artem counsels.

    ¡°Where is she?¡± I demand.

    Artem winces. ¡°Ilya sent a report twenty minutes ago. She disappeared into Mara¡¯s building ages ago. But it seemed she took a different exit out of there. Possibly because Anton has been parked outside the building for hours.¡±

    ¡°Meaning you¡¯ve lost her?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll find her,¡± Artem assures me.

    Why do those three little words fill me withfort? I shouldn¡¯t care one way or the other. Hadn¡¯t I washed my hands of Sutton Palmer?

    She¡¯s Anton¡¯s problem now.

    And yet the sight of that bruise on her face has me spiraling. How dare that fuckery a finger on her? How dare he touch her?

    And then¡ªin the furthest, darkest corner of my mind¡ªa thought inches its way into the forefront.

    How dare he touch what¡¯s mine?

    I jump off the yacht and onto the dock. ¡°Where¡¯s Anton?¡±

    Artem follows. ¡°He was at Mara¡¯s building up until a half-hour ago. Now, we¡¯re not sure. The men were busy scrambling to locate Sutton. Anton¡¯s not on their assignment.¡±

    ¡°Goddammit,¡± I say, rummaging around in my pockets for the keys to my car.

    ¡°Give those to me,¡± Artem says the moment I find them. ¡°Let me drive. In your state, you¡¯re going to run someone over.¡±

    ¡°If it happens to be Drew, that would be fucking perfect,¡± I growl.

    But I hand over the keys anyway. I¡¯m in no fit state to drive and I¡¯m not so far gone that I don¡¯t recognize that.

    ¡°Where to?¡± Artem asks as he gets behind the wheel.

    ¡°Mara¡¯s ce. I want to speak to her.¡±

    ¡°Okay, but take a deep breath. Chill, brother. If you don¡¯t get those veins in your forehead under control, you¡¯re likely to scare the poor girl to death.¡±

    White-knuckling the seat, I try to breathe through the anger.

    The only other time I¡¯ve felt this out of control was on a boat, a long time ago. I¡¯d lost two people I loved dearly that night.

    Is this feeling telling me that history is about to repeat itself?

    I grit my teeth, eyes narrowing with determination.

    Not if I can help it.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 56

    My passport.

    Fifty dors.

    And my phone.

    That¡¯s all I have to my name¡ªand if I¡¯m gonna be smart about all this, I need to ditch the phone the first chance I get.

    I¡¯ve turned off the tracker and deleted all the other apps. But considering Oleg works in surveince and has the best and most efficient tools in the literal world at his disposal, I don¡¯t trust that I¡¯ve done enough to cover my trail.

    Still, once I ditch this phone, I¡¯m essentially off the grid.

    Isted and alone.

    With nothing but fifty dors to get me¡­ where?

    I can get as far as Miami, maybe. So why the hell did I blow thirty bucks on a cab to the airport? It¡¯s not as though I can afford a ne ticket. And using Oleg¡¯s credit cards isn¡¯t an option.

    Which is how I find myself sitting on the floor outside a bathroom at Palm Beach International Airport, dialing in my sister¡¯s number.

    ¡°Please answer, please answer, please answer, please?¡ª¡±

    Finally, on the third ring, the call picks up. Sydney¡¯s voicees through but it¡¯s far-off, distant. The connection isn¡¯t clear.

    ¡°Syd?¡±

    ¡°¡ªutt¡ª?¡± I hear her cry. ¡°Is that you? What¡¯s going¡ª? ¡­ Are you?¡ª?¡±

    Pressing my free ear down, I try to concentrate on my sister¡¯s voice. ¡°Syd, can you hear me? This is important. I really need to talk to you.¡±

    ¡°¡­ call you back?¡ª¡±

    The line goes dead. I pick myself up off the floor and try to find a quieter corner to hole myself up in.

    When Sydney calls back, the line is a whole lot clearer.

    ¡°Okay,¡± she breathes. ¡°I¡¯m in the bathroom. But fair warning, Paul is right outside so I can¡¯t take too long.¡±

    My stomach drops. ¡°Syd, you can¡¯t mention me to him, okay? He can¡¯t know about this call.¡±

    ¡°Somehow, I figured,¡± she sighs. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡±

    ¡°Long story short: Oleg and I are over.¡± God, does that hurt to admit. My throat is burning from the bitterness of those words. ¡°I fucked up and I need help.¡±

    ¡°You need money.¡±

    I wince. ¡°Y-yes¡­ I need money. I¡¯m sorry to ask but?¡ª¡±

    ¡°What happened between you two?¡±

    ¡°Drew happened,¡± I admit. ¡°He¡¯s still in the picture and refusing to leave. That¡¯s why you can¡¯t tell Paul about me. Drew¡¯s working for him now and I don¡¯t want information getting around. I need to get out of Palm Beach, Syd. But I don¡¯t want toe to Vegas.¡±

    ¡°No, you¡¯re right. Vegas is not an option. But it would be easier for me to get you money¡­¡±

    I bite my lip, waiting for her toe up with a solution. My brain feels like it¡¯s slowly turning to mush.

    ¡°Okay, I¡¯ll figure something out,¡± she decides. ¡°But it might take some time. You¡¯ll need to keep in touch with me so that I can let you know what I¡¯vee up with.¡±

    ¡°I will.¡±

    ¡°What are you going to do in the meantime?¡±

    That¡¯s a great question. But before I can pull an answer out of my ass, I hear banging on Sydney¡¯s side of the call.

    I hear the deep grate of a man¡¯s voice, but it¡¯s too muffled for me to distinguish the words.

    ¡°Coming, darling!¡± Sydney chirps, her voice going all high and girlish. ¡°Just washing up.¡± I hear the sound of running water. Then Sydney¡¯s voice again, except this time, it¡¯s low, barely a whisper. ¡°Gotta go. Keep in touch. Stay safe.¡±

    Click.

    My heart hammers hard against my chest as I stare down at the ck screen, contemting Sydney¡¯sst question.

    Where do I lie low in the meantime?

    I don¡¯t have the money for a motel. I can¡¯t go back to Mara¡¯s. The whole city is unsafe with Drew on the prowl.

    And if he makes good on his threat and releases our alleged sex tapes, then thest traces of my anonymity are going to fly out the window faster than my pride already has.

    Where can I go that¡¯s safe?

    The question unlocks something. A recent memory.

    Oleg and I, sprawled out across the deck of one of his yachts, staring up at the stars as Oleg exined his surveince systems to me.

    ¡°My surveince system has made my yachts the safest ces to be on earth,¡± he told me proudly. ¡°They can¡¯t be tracked¡­ not by satellite, radar or sonar. You want to disappear? Hide out on one of my boats. It¡¯s the closest thing to vanishing a person can pull in this day and age where everything and everyone can be tracked.¡±

    His voice echoes in my ear, as soft and asforting as a luby. Maybe that¡¯s where I need to go: the Pavlov Boatyard.

    The very idea isughable. But the more I think about it, the better it seems.

    Hide in in sight, you know? Maybe I can stow away on one of his unused boats until Sydney can find a way to get me some money.

    Then I can buy myself a ne ticket out of this city and away from all my skeletons.

    As my resolve hardens, I start moving towards the airport¡¯s exit. I¡¯m standing right in front of the big Departures sign when it strikes me: I can leave some breadcrumbs for Drew. Hopefully, they¡¯ll lead him in the wrong direction and buy me a little extra time.

    I take my phone out and flip the camera around. Then I make sure to center myself under the Departures board.

    I take a quick picture and send it to Drew.

    Along with one final word that I hope will be myst contact with him.

    Bye.

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 57

    Mara is frantic when we walk into her tiny studio apartment. She shoves a box full of Sutton¡¯s things right into my arms.

    ¡°It¡¯s not like her to have left without an exnation!¡± Mara cries. ¡°She was supposed to meet me at the smoothie bar. The barista said that she walked out half an hour before I arrived without her smoothie.¡±

    ¡°Did he say anything else?¡±

    Mara¡¯s not really looking at me. Her eyes keep darting to the little box that I¡¯m rummaging through.

    ¡°It was her favorite, too. Chocte avocado. She loves it. She wouldn¡¯t have left it behind unless it was an emergency.¡±

    Artem casts me a look. I¡¯m pretty sure if the situation weren¡¯t so serious, he¡¯d be fighting backughter. It¡¯s a testament to how much he cares for Sutton that he manages to keep his expression suitably uneasy.

    ¡°The barista said that some guy came over and sat with her. It was Drew; I just know it was. That bastard¡¯s been hounding her for months!¡± She twists around, her eyesnding on me as though she¡¯s just realized she¡¯s not alone. ¡°She was only in contact with him because of her sister, you know? There was nothing else going on between Sutton and Drew. She hated the bastard.¡±

    ¡°You would say that,¡± I murmur, gazing at the odd collection of things Sutton left behind. Among the junk are the keys to the car I¡¯d gifted her.

    ¡°I¡¯m saying it because it¡¯s true!¡± snaps Mara. ¡°Sutton doesn¡¯t have a deceptive bone in her body.¡±

    ¡°Then why wouldn¡¯t she tell me that she was still in contact with Drew?¡±

    ¡°Uh, maybe because she knew you would freak out? Which you did?!¡±

    Artem clears his throat and steps forward. ¡°That¡¯s neither here nor there at the moment, Mara. We need to find out where Sutton went. Do you have any idea where to find her?¡±

    ¡°Hello? Were you not listening?¡± she yells. ¡°Smoothie bar! Stalker ex-boyfriend! No exnations! I have no idea where Sutton might¡­¡± She trails off. ¡°Except¡­ maybe¡­ her sister¡­¡± Her eyes focus on me. ¡°She might have contacted her sister.¡±

    I get to my feet. ¡°Her passport is gone. It¡¯s the only thing of value she¡¯s taken.¡±

    ¡°So she might be in Vegas, then?¡± Mara wonders out loud.

    ¡°You sound unsure,¡± Artem points out.

    ¡°Only because Drew started working for Sydney¡¯s boyfriend again. I doubt she¡¯d go to Vegas knowing that Drew is back on Paul¡¯s payroll.¡±

    ¡°But maybe she¡¯s going there to ask for help,¡± I surmise. ¡°I need to talk to her sister. I assume you have her number?¡±

    Mara squints at me in suspicion. ¡°What do you n on doing when you find Sutton?¡±

    I pull out my phone. ¡°Sutton and I may be over, but that doesn¡¯t mean I want her at the mercy of that dumbfuck ex of hers. He may be an idiot, but he¡¯s a dangerous idiot. And there¡¯s nothing quite as deadly.¡±

    Mara¡¯s bottom lip quivers. ¡°Why the hell didn¡¯t she tell me where she was going? I could have helped. I could have lent her some money!¡±

    ¡°As far as I can tell, she didn¡¯t want to involve you any more than she already had,¡± Artem offers. ¡°But she did want me to check on you, make sure you were alright.¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s got the kindest heart of anyone I¡¯ve ever met.¡± Mara¡¯s eyes water for a moment before her jaw hardens. ¡°But for all that, she also has the lowest self-esteem. Thanks to all the ungrateful schmucks she ends up choosing.¡±

    She meets me square in the eye. No points for subtlety.

    I grind my teeth. ¡°Sydney¡¯s number?¡±

    Mara nods, the quiver back in her lips. ¡°Fine, I¡¯ll give it to you. But only if you use your powers for good and not evil.¡±

    She doesn¡¯t wait for me to agree before she pulls up Sydney¡¯s number and thrusts her phone at me.

    I jot it down quickly and give Mara a nod as I make for the door.

    ¡°I¡¯ll let you know if we manage to find her.¡±

    She grasps my arm before I can walk out. ¡°Please,¡± she begs, imploring me with her wide eyes. ¡°Find her.¡±

    ¡°I will.¡±

    Whatever she sees in my eyes seems to calm her, because she takes a deep breath, her shoulders rxing as she lets go of me.

    As Artem and I head back down to the Escde, I decide to call Sydney immediately.

    ¡°Now?¡± Artem balks.

    ¡°Why not? We don¡¯t have time to waste.¡±

    ¡°You really think she¡¯s gonna talk to you?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re running out of options. And I¡¯m certain Sutton will have contacted her sister. They were always there for each other as kids. There¡¯s no reason to believe anything has changed.¡±

    I dial, and Sydney picks up just as I slide into the passenger¡¯s seat. ¡°¡­ Hello?¡±

    Her voice is eerily like Sutton¡¯s. The familiarity sends an ache coursing through me that I¡¯m not prepared for.

    Like something has settled under my skin and I can¡¯t fucking rip it out.

    ¡°Sydney.¡±

    ¡°Speaking,¡± she replies formally, her voice bing instantly reserved. ¡°Who are you?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m Oleg Pavlov.¡±

    There¡¯s a beat of silence. ¡°No fucking way. What do you want?¡±

    I toss Artem a nce. ¡°I¡¯m guessing Sutton contacted you already?¡±

    ¡°If she did, it¡¯s none of your business. Not anymore, anyway.¡±

    ¡°She might be in trouble, Sydney.¡±

    ¡°Of course she¡¯s in trouble, you gigantic douche bag!¡± she yells so loudly that I have to hold the receiver away from my ear. ¡°You broke up with her and kicked her out of the house!¡±

    ¡°There were¡­ extenuating circumstances.¡±

    ¡°Give me one good reason why I shouldn¡¯t hang up on you right now.¡±

    ¡°Because, believe it or not, I want to make sure your sister is okay.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about Sutton. She¡¯s a survivor. Us Palmer women have had to be. Especially since we have a habit of attracting assholes. I thought Sutton had avoided the curse, but apparently not.¡±

    ¡°Where is she?¡± I ask.

    ¡°She¡¯s leaving Florida, thanks to you,¡± Sydney replies snottily.

    ¡°What?¡± Artem spasms in his seat and the Escde wobbles on the road for a second. ¡°Where is she going?¡±

    ¡°I have no idea. And even if I did, I wouldn¡¯t tell you. Now, kindly fuck off and never call me again.¡±

    The call ends. I stare at the receiver as though it just tried to take a bite out of me.

    ¡°Jesus, that sister of hers is a live wire,¡± Artem muses. ¡°Guess it runs in the family.¡±

    ¡°Blyat¡¯,¡± I say. ¡°Looks like we¡¯re going to have to find her on our own.¡±

    ¡°That is if she¡¯s still in the state.¡±

    ¡°She is.¡±

    Artem throws me a skeptical nce. ¡°How can you be sure?¡±

    The truth is, I have no clue why I¡¯m so sure.

    It¡¯s more¡­ a feeling.

    The certainty that Sutton is still in Palm Beach, closer than I think.

    ¡°She doesn¡¯t have enough money to get out of the state. There¡¯s no way Sydney was able to get her the money that fast, either. Which means she¡¯s going to be lying low somewhere in the city. We just have to figure out where.¡±

    ¡°Did she mention any ce sentimental?¡± Artem asks. ¡°A park she¡¯s fond of? For what it¡¯s worth, maybe we should check out the airp?¡ª¡±

    My phone cuts Artem off with a sharp ring. I can¡¯t believe my eyes when I see the caller ID.

    ¡°Drew Anton.¡±

    ¡°My God.¡± Artem¡¯s jaw drops. ¡°Fucker¡¯s got a pair of balls on him.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯ll be parted from them soon enough,¡± I promise as I transfer the call to speaker phone and answer it. ¡°Hello?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m guessing this is the great and mighty Oleg Pavlov?¡±

    ¡°And I¡¯m guessing this is the pathetic and moronic Drew Anton.¡±

    Heughs bitterly. ¡°If you know who I am, then you know what I am to Sutton.¡±

    I¡¯m willing to bet that the only reason he¡¯s so free with her name is because he¡¯s far, far away from me. ¡°The cancer she can¡¯t get rid of?¡±

    ¡°She was ying a role, man. She may have talked shit about me, but I am her person. She confides in me, trusts me, loves me. You were just a fucking job. However she was with you was fake.¡±

    ¡°Trust me,¡± I growl, low and menacing. ¡°There are some things no woman can fake.¡± His breath catches. Then I hear a furious groan from his end of the line. Before he can rebut, I keep talking. ¡°Why the hell are you calling me?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ve got something very valuable that you¡¯re gonna want.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s nothing you have that I want. If that¡¯s all?¡ª¡±

    ¡°No!¡± he yells, the catch in his throat betraying his desperation. ¡°Trust me, this is something you¡¯re definitely going to want.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re full of shit, Anton.¡±

    I¡¯m about to end this waste of time call when he shouts, ¡°She¡¯s pregnant!¡±

    I freeze. Artem does, too. His eyes snap to me but I¡¯m focused on the call, the voice on the other line that¡¯s giving me news she should have given me herself.

    ¡°What?¡±

    He lets out a cackle ofughter. ¡°She didn¡¯t tell you, did she? Well, she told me. The kid¡¯s yours and¡ªfor a price¡ªI can tell you exactly where she is.¡±

    ¡°For a price, huh?¡± I snarl, fist pressed knuckles-down into the seat.

    ¡°That¡¯s right. One mill?¡ª¡±

    ¡°One thing before you name your price.¡±

    ¡°Yeah?¡±

    ¡°Fuck you.¡±

    I hang up. Artem is giving me a look. ¡°He just called to goad you,¡± he says.

    ¡°I¡¯m aware¡ªwhich is why I didn¡¯t rise to the bait. Fucker can crawl up his own ass and die before I give him so much as the lint from my fucking pocket.¡±

    ¡°Right, but¡­ do you think that the thing he said about Sutton is true?¡± Artem asks tentatively.

    My heart is thudding unevenly, telling me that maybe this one piece of information, I can trust.

    Or maybe I¡¯m just hoping I can trust it.

    No. It¡¯ll be easier for everyone if it¡¯s not true.

    That¡¯s what I should be hoping for.

    ¡°Make a call to Vegas,¡± I growl. ¡°If Anton thinks he can fuck with me without any consequences, he¡¯s got another thinging.¡±

    ¡°Holy shit,¡± Artem exims, ignoring me in favor of his phone.

    ¡°What now?¡±

    Artem lifts his eyes to mine. ¡°Ilya texted. He just picked up some pings from Sutton¡¯s phone.¡± He shakes his head in disbelief. ¡°She¡¯s at the boatyard.¡±

 Dirty Damage: Chapter 58

    Houston, we have a problem.

    All I¡¯ve been thinking is that I¡¯ll be safe once I¡¯m stowed away on one of Oleg¡¯s yachts.

    I haven¡¯t thought about how I¡¯m actually going to get inside them.

    If the seven-foot-high fences walling the yard off aren¡¯t enough, there are also floodlights every few yards, cameras in between, and an army¡¯s worth of security patrolling the area on foot.

    You¡¯d think I was trying to get into the White House.

    More like the Morally Gray House, if we¡¯re being honest.

    Still, I¡¯vee too far to give up now. I might as well exhaust all possibilities before I call this quits and find a shelter to hunker down in for the night.

    Just the thought of going to a shelter again after all this time makes me feel sick to my stomach.

    That can¡¯t be how my child¡¯s life begins. I¡¯d rather find a quiet bridge and a dry spot under it to take refuge.

    I walk around the boatyard, hugging the chain-link fence and keeping my eyes open. I notice a flurry of activity around one of the bigger yachts. Mening and going, security, carts being driven to and from the storage facility.

    Some are small, but others are almost person-sized. The question is, are theyrge enough that, with a little luck and a lot of intuition, I might be able to sneak my ass onto one?

    More importantly: Can I do it without being seen?

    Only one way to find out.

    I start to creep toward the end of the cart caravan. They¡¯re loading from back to front, so most of the men are upied with piling boxes on the ones up toward the head of the procession.

    If I stay low, if I stay quiet, if I slip through the canvas ps without being seen¡­

    God, I hope this works.

    A hysterical bubble ofughter jumps to my throat. I just about manage to swallow it down.

    I inch closer. The floodlights keep beaming; the guards keep roving.

    It¡¯s going to be close.

    Not yet.

    Not yet¡­

    Now.

    I lunge toward the cart during the slim window of opportunity. I duck through the ps and scurry all the way to the back. In the darkness, though, I trip and fall.

    The upside: nothing moves.

    The downside: my ass and elbow explode with pain.

    Honestly, they really should pay action stars more. I¡¯m blinking back tears and massaging my elbow, trying my best not to whimper.

    Suddenly, the cart jerks forward. I gasp, but thankfully, my gasp is drowned out by the groaning wheels and rattling metal boxes stacked around me.

    I can feel the upward tilt of the cart as it¡¯s pushed onto the yacht. Hopefully, no one opens the tarp to check on the goods inside.

    I keep my fingers and toes crossed until the cart bes stationary once more. Footsteps recede and silence takes over.

    I count to one hundred. When nothing and no onees to interrupt me, I slowly creep back out.

    I¡¯m somewhere in the underbelly of the ship. It¡¯s dark, cool, and quiet.

    But only for a second.

    As soon as I emerge, the sound of approaching footsteps sends my heart plummeting into my stomach. I take the first door I see and slip inside a bathroom with tiny little port holes.

    Through them, the ocean is a t ne of ck and blue. Not a single whitecap to break it up. The night is still.

    This will do for now.

    First, I lock the door. Then I slip down under the porthole and hug my knees to my chest.

    I don¡¯t dare turn a light on in case someone waltzes by and notices.

    I just wait.

    Breathe.

    Wait.

    Breathe.

    And pray.

    I spend the next hour quaking in my boots¡ªmetaphorically speaking, of course. My boots are back in Mara¡¯s apartment, along with the rest of my life.

    At one point, I hear voices just outside the bathroom door. I sidle a little closer and hold my breath, hoping to catch a snippet of conversation that might help me understand where we¡¯re going.

    The crew members are speaking Russian. It might as well be Klingon, for all I understand.

    But the moment I¡¯m about to crawl back into my little corner of the bathroom, I hear a word¡ªa name¡ªthat sends shivers down my spine.

    ¡°Boris¡­¡±

    No. It can¡¯t be. I must have heard that wrong.

    But then I hear his name again and this time, there¡¯s no disputing it. Feeling sick to my stomach, I end up with my cheek on the bathroom floor, staring at the patterned tiles, searching for answers in them.

    My body is aching. My head is spinning. My eyes are getting heavier and heavier.

    I¡¯ll just rest them for a quick minute.

    It couldn¡¯t possibly hurt, right?<hr>

    I¡¯m woken by a painful gurgling.

    It feels like all the ache in my body has been concentrated in my stomach. I can¡¯t decide if I want to throw up or eat something.

    Is this morning sickness?

    The irony is that it looks like it¡¯s the dead of the night. To make sure, I peer out the porthole. The waves are animated now, all streaming in one direction.

    Almost to the point that it looks like we¡¯re¡­ moving?

    Wait.

    I clutch the edges of the porthole when I realize that I can no longer see the glittering lights of the harbor.

    Which means we¡¯re no longer docked.

    Yes, now that I¡¯m fully present, I can hear the steady thrum of the yacht¡¯s engine.

    We must¡¯ve been sailing for hours now.

    And I slept through it all.

    My queasy stomach doesn¡¯t allow much room for thinking. I end up crawling to the toilet, lifting up the lid and going all Jackson Pollock in the bowl. Blech.

    Once I¡¯m dry-heaving empty air, I flush and crawl over to the vanity. Not even a ssh of cold water on my face makes me feel better.

    What the hell am I supposed to do now? I don¡¯t even know where this stupid yacht is headed.

    And just like that, like an answered prayer, I hear voices. Crew members moving about the lower deck.

    There¡¯s no mention of Boris. But I do hear someone utter, ¡°Nassau.¡±

    Nassau? That¡¯s in the Bahamas, isn¡¯t it?

    Well, I suppose there are worse ces to be unwittingly dragged to. I can figure out something from there. Maybe convince Sydney to wire me some money so that I can figure out next steps.

    I should be more concerned about being trapped in a foreignnd with no money and only a passport to my name.

    But the fact that I might be on this yacht with Boris is taking up all the worrying space in my head.

    I end up back on my cozy little spot on the floor underneath the porthole. Another choppy bout of sleepter and I wake up ravenous.

    I feel empty¡­ literally and figuratively.

    I need to get food inside me fast and at the moment, I don¡¯t care if I have to wrestle Boris himself for it.

    Sure, he might call the Coast Guard, have me arrested, maybe even throw me overboard as shark chum. But in the face of my hunger, that all seems worth it.

    So, marshaling up all my strength, I rise shakily to my feet and approach the door. I unfasten the lock and sp the door handle.

    I have no idea what¡¯s waiting for me on the other side of this door but, fuck it¡ªtime to act.

    I pull the door open¡ªand walk straight into a hard, warm wall.

    Stars prickle the edge of my vision.

    Then I copse.

 Soft Tissue Damage: Chapter 10

    Aweekter, the following Wednesday, Elenaes over for babysitting. I¡¯ve missed her like oxygen. I¡¯ve been tracking her movements every hour we¡¯ve been apart, and I watch the dot on my phone screen that represents her as it draws closer to my house. Every moment we¡¯ve been apart is torture.

    ¡°What¡¯s for dinner?¡± Leon asks as hees into the kitchen. I invited him to have dinner with us before he heads over to his mom¡¯s.

    I lock my phone and slip it into my pocket, and turn to my son. ¡°Lasagna. Can you please put this sd on the table?¡±

    Elena couldn¡¯t be here for bedtime, so Rosie is already asleep. I hear Elena¡¯s knock on the door, and as Leon goes to answer it, I step out of the kitchen into the hallway that leads to my study, but I don¡¯t go to my study. I stand just out of sight, and I wait.

    The next hour is going to be difficult. I wish it wasn¡¯t going to be so painful for Elena, but it has to be done. If it were me, I would want to know.

    Leon and Elenae into the kitchen, and he fetches her a Coke while they chat about his studies and her day at the diner. I burn with anger as I listen to my son lie to Elena, telling her he spent hours in the library this afternoon.

    While they talk, I send a message and a series of photos to Elena¡¯s number from an anonymous burner phone.

    Hi, Elena. You don¡¯t know me, but my name is Angie, and I know your boyfriend Leon¡­

    Elena¡¯s phone buzzes repeatedly. She goes on talking, but a momentter, she trails off.

    ¡°Leon, what¡¯s this?¡± Elena asks in a shaky voice. ¡°Who¡¯s Angie?¡±

    With my back against the wall, I close my eyes. I hate hearing Elena in pain.

    ¡°Angie?¡± Leon replies. ¡°What do you mean, who¡¯s Angie?¡±

    There¡¯s a moment of silence, and I picture Leon grabbing the phone from her and studying the dozens of photos and screenshots I sent to Elena. Most of the photos are of Leon and Angie in bed together, but I cropped out the nudity for Elena¡¯s sake. There are a lot of sexting messages, and manyparisons that Leon makes between this other woman and Elena. The messages include details about Leon¡¯s life that Elena is familiar with, like which sses he¡¯s taking and his schedule. It¡¯s unmistakably authentic. I know it is, because I found it all on Leon¡¯s phone.

    In a dismissive tone, he says, ¡°It¡¯s nothing. Just someone fucking with you. Ignore it.¡±

    My eyes narrow. My son is a liar on top of everything else.

    ¡°But that¡¯s you in these photos,¡± Elena cries.

    ¡°They¡¯re old photos.¡±

    ¡°You didn¡¯t buy that T-shirt you¡¯re wearing in this one until two weeks ago,¡± she points out. ¡°You wore it on one of our dates.¡± The enormity of what she¡¯s learning suddenly hits Elena, and she breaks down, sobbing. ¡°Were you with this woman the same day you saw me?¡±

    ¡°I swear, it¡¯s nothing,¡± Leon says desperately. ¡°Just delete the messages. I used to be friends with that girl, and she¡¯s trying to make me look bad.¡±

    ¡°Friends who go to bed together? Friends who say all this to each other?¡±

    I presume that she¡¯s pointing out a particrly lurid sext.

    ¡°She doesn¡¯t mean anything to me, Elena. You¡¯re the one I want.¡±

    I know from text messages between Leon and his friends that he doesn¡¯t feel anything for Angie. He¡¯s not falling in love with her or confused about which woman his heart belongs to. Leon does seem to care about Elena, but he¡¯s frustrated and resentful that she won¡¯t sleep with him. That¡¯s no excuse for his behavior. He should have broken up with her instead of cheating on her, because now he¡¯s hurt her.

    I check the security footage in the kitchen on my phone so I can see what they¡¯re doing. Leon isn¡¯tforting Elena. He¡¯s just standing there watching her cry.

    ¡°We all make mistakes. No one¡¯s perfect,¡± he mutters, sounding like a petnt child.

    ¡°You¡¯re right.¡± Elena wipes her face and takes a deep breath. ¡°Leon, there¡¯s something I have to tell you too.¡±

    rm thuds through me. Is she going to tell him about our kiss? Now is not the time for the mutual baring of souls and the chance for Leon to seize any high ground. I can already hear him storming about the betrayal of his girlfriend kissing his father and making this all about his hurt and not hers. What we each did is not equivalent. The kiss between me and Elena was my fault, not hers. I want Elena to feel as beloved as she deserves. Leon was just horny.

    I push my phone into my pocket and step into the room. ¡°What¡¯s going on in here?¡±

    Apart from Elena¡¯s crying, the room goes very quiet. I stride forward and take Elena¡¯s phone from her, and scroll through the photos and messages.

    ¡°I see,¡± I say coldly. It disgusts me all over again to look at the photos of Leon and this other young woman. I wish I could have spared Elena the sight, but a short, sharp shock is preferable to a long, drawn-out breakup. ¡°Dating two women at the same time is shameful behavior, Leon. I¡¯m disappointed in you.¡±

    ¡°We weren¡¯t dating,¡± Leon bursts out.

    ¡°So it was just sex? Is that better?¡±

    Elena cries even harder.

    I want to reach out and scoop her into my arms and cradle her tightly against my chest. I crave to kiss every tear from her cheeks. It¡¯s torture being this close to her but being unable tofort her.

    I turn to my son. ¡°I think you should go to your mother¡¯s and give Elena some space.¡±

    Leon looks at Elena, waiting for her to tell him she doesn¡¯t want him to go, but she¡¯s still crying and looking at the floor.

    ¡°Whatever,¡± he mutters, and storms out of the kitchen.

    I give Elena¡¯s phone back to her and pass her a tissue. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, Elena. I¡¯m ashamed of my son. You don¡¯t deserve to be treated this way.¡±

    Elena mops her face with the tissue. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter. I¡¯m okay.¡± Then she breaks down into sobbing again. ¡°I thought things were getting better between us.¡±

    I put both my hands gently on her shoulders and caress her with my thumbs. It takes all my self-control not to pull her body against mine and rock her against my chest. ¡°I¡¯m going to cancel my poker game.¡±

    ¡°No, please don¡¯t ruin your evening for me.¡±

    ¡°I promise you¡¯re not. Stay here, and we¡¯ll talk. But first I have to speak to Leon.¡±

    I put a ss of water into her hands, steer her into the living room, and gently make her sit on the sofa. ¡°Rosie is asleep upstairs, but I¡¯ll be right back. Thirty minutes at the most.¡±

    She cups the ss, stares down into it, and says in a small voice, ¡°All right.¡±

    The helpless note in her voice breaks my self-control. I go down on my knees and cup her face. ¡°It will be okay. I promise. I will make things okay.¡±

    But first I have to get Leon out of her life for good.

    Ten minutester, I¡¯m standing on my ex-wife¡¯s doorstep, ringing the doorbell.

    Reba answers. Her long red hair tumbles over her shoulder. She fluffs it, her face unsmiling. I have no smile for her either.

    ¡°Can I please talk to Leon?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Hello to you too. What¡¯s it about?¡±

    ¡°Leon knows.¡±

    Reba hesitates, and then lets me in. ¡°He ran upstairs a few minutes ago. He seemed upset about something.¡±

    ¡°Leon,¡± I shout as I enter the house. ¡°Get down here right now.¡±

    Slowly, sullenly, Leones down the stairs and meets me in the living room.

    ¡°What did you do?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Nothing, Dad,¡± Leon says, throwing his hands up like he¡¯s been wrongly used.

    There¡¯s nothing I despise more than tant lies. He started sleeping with a woman from his sses not long after he and Elena started dating, and he spends several afternoons a week with her while he¡¯s supposed to be studying, and Elena is working.

    ¡°I saw the messages. The photographs of you and that woman together. When I called youst week, I heard a woman¡¯s voice on the line. That was her, wasn¡¯t it? Don¡¯t lie to me again, Leon,¡± I say sharply when I see from his expression that he¡¯s only going to offer more excuses. Cheating on Elena again and again purely to satisfy his lust is utterly unforgiveable.

    ¡°Well, I just¡­¡± He shrugs.

    I¡¯m not really interested in what he has to say. I already know the truth, and I¡¯m just going through the motions so he doesn¡¯t wonder why I¡¯m not asking for details. In the end, he says nothing.

    ¡°I¡¯m disappointed in you, Leon. Why did you do it?¡±

    Leon res past my shoulder, his jaw tight. ¡°Elena was only half a girlfriend. I was tired of living like a monk.¡±

    ¡°If that¡¯s how you felt, you should have respectfully broken up with Elena, not betrayed her behind her back. You chose the most hurtful way to go about things.¡±

    ¡°I really liked Elena. I didn¡¯t want to break up. She¡¯s so pretty and kind.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t do that to a woman and then im you really like her. What are you going to do now, move on to this Angie?¡±

    He pulls a face. ¡°Ew, no. She¡¯s just a side chick.¡±

    Where did my son learn to talk about any woman like that? I hate his careless use of side chick. It littered his chats with his friends. He was so proud of having two women on the go.

    Reba appears in the doorway and leans against it, holding a ss with ice and an inch of clear liquid. Maybe it¡¯s water. Probably it¡¯s vodka.

    I know she¡¯s been listening to our conversation, and so I ask her, ¡°Do you have anything to add?¡±

    Reba hesitates. ¡°Cheating is terrible behavior, Leon. I¡¯m disappointed as well. Who was she, some slut?¡±

    ¡°Reba,¡± I growl in warning, and she rolls her eyes.

    ¡°Some women are trashy, Cun,¡± she mutters under her breath, taking a sip of her drink.

    ¡°Apologize to Elena for what you did and then leave her alone,¡± I tell Leon.

    ¡°I don¡¯t want to apologize. She should never have found out. What was Angie thinking?¡±

    ¡°Give Elena the dignity of an apology and then stay out of her life.¡±

    Leon turns and charges upstairs without another word.

    ¡°Apologies cost nothing, Leon,¡± Reba shouts after him.

    ¡°Thank you for backing me up,¡± I say to her once Leon¡¯s bedroom door ms behind him.

    Dislike shes in her eyes, and I instantly regret saying anything.

    ¡°I understand his point of view,¡± Reba mutters. ¡°It¡¯s painful when you only have half a partner. You never cheated on me, but you never loved me either.¡±

    I gave Reba every part of myself that she would ept. I tried to love her despite her drinking and disinterest in our children. I grit my teeth against the words, because we¡¯ve had this argument a thousand times, and I never want to have it again as long as I live.

    I turn around and head for the door. I need to get home to Elena.

 Soft Tissue Damage: Chapter 11

    I¡¯m curled up in a ball on the sofa, and the cushion beneath my cheek is wet with tears. I haven¡¯t moved since Mr. Grant put me on the sofa and told me to wait for him. I feel hollowed out and sick with shock. I can¡¯t get those pictures of my boyfriend and another woman out of my head. When did he find time to have a whole other girlfriend, or lover, or whatever she is? I barely have time to sit down for five minutes to myself.

    The thought makes me cringe. Is that why Leon cheated on me? Because I¡¯m so boring and tired all the time?

    My phone buzzes. It¡¯s a text from Leon. I sit up and wipe my face, and read it.

    Leon: You¡¯re the one I want. I just made a mistake.

    Tears fill my eyes. A mistake? For a moment my heart lifts. Maybe it is all a terrible mistake. More texts from Leon light up my phone.

    Leon: She doesn¡¯t mean anything to me really.

    Leon: And the thing is, you never seemed that interested in sex. I didn¡¯t think you¡¯d care if I got it elsewhere.

    Leon: I made a mistake, but it doesn¡¯t mean I don¡¯t care about you.

    Leon: I was confused.

    Leon¡¯s throwing every excuse at the wall, hoping something sticks. Confused? I know what confusion feels like, and it¡¯s not taking happy selfies while you¡¯re naked in bed with someone. Confusion is kneeling in a church pew praying over and over that you won¡¯t burn in hell for all eternity because you¡¯re never good enough. It¡¯s trying to be a good girlfriend, and then having endless steamy dreams about your boyfriend¡¯s dad. It¡¯s hiding a murder spree and a secret kiss in the dark. If anyone finds out Mr. Grant killed my attackers and I concealed his involvement, I could go to prison and so could Mr. Grant. My boyfriend¡¯s father doesn¡¯t seem to have any PTSD or regret over the blood on his hands, and I have never once felt afraid of the man I saw kill four people. That¡¯s confusing.

    The next two messagese through quickly, as if Leon is typing fast because he¡¯s getting angry.

    Leon: And I was frustrated.

    Leon: I thought it was wrong to keep pushing you for sex.

    Leon: You didn¡¯t want me to keep pushing you for sex, did you? It was making us both angry not getting what we needed.

    The phone drops from my fingers to the floor, and my heart drops with it. He was angry with me? I was never angry with him. The implication is clear that I wasn¡¯t worth waiting for, even though I was giving Leon clear signs that I was getting morefortable with the idea of sleeping with him. The contraceptive patch proved that, didn¡¯t it?

    That night he went down on me could have been disastrous, but he cooled off, came back to me, and started again, slow and loving. The way he touched me and kissed me¡ªthat second try was like night and day from the first. Later, I tried to tell him how grateful I was that he was patient and thoughtful enough to help me rx into it, and then make me feel so, so good, but he turned red and cut me off before I could get three words out. I don¡¯t understand why he didn¡¯t want to relive that wonderful moment with me.

    When did he start sleeping with this Angie? If I know when it started, maybe I can figure out what I did that triggered his infidelity. Was it a week when I took too many shifts at work? Was it right after I burst into tears and covered myself up because he pulled my top off?

    I pick up my phone and reply.

    Elena: How many times did you sleep with her? When did it start?

    Leon: It was just once, I swear.

    There are a dozen photos of them in bed together. The sheets change color and so does Angie¡¯s lingerie. I start to get angry.

    Elena: Do you think I¡¯m stupid?

    The three dots appear and they¡¯re there for several minutes. Either he¡¯s writing an essay or he¡¯s deleting and retyping. Finally the messagees through.

    Leon: I think you¡¯re frigid.

    Leon: You should see someone about that.

    Hurt fills up inside my chest. The usation in his words is clear. I¡¯m not good enough. It¡¯s nothing I didn¡¯t already know.

    I dissolve into sobbing again. A few minutester, I hear the front door close, and then strong arms scoop me up, and I¡¯m pulled against a warm chest. Mr. Grant holds me on hisp, murmuring soft words into my hair and gently stroking my brow.

    ¡°I hate that you¡¯re in so much pain. I¡¯m so sorry, Elena. I¡¯ve got you. Just cry it out.¡±

    Apparently I do need to cry, because I can¡¯t stop. I cling to Mr. Grant¡¯s bicep and shudder in his arms, which he keeps tight around me.

    ¡°You must have really loved him,¡± he murmurs.

    I brush tears from my cheeks and sit up. ¡°I don¡¯t know if this hurts because I loved him, or because I was really trying, and I still wasn¡¯t enough.¡±

    After the night Leon went down on me, I started to hope that we were turning a corner together. At first it wasn¡¯t going well at all, and Leon had to leave the room because he was so frustrated with me. I tried to feel something, but I got in my head and couldn¡¯t enjoy myself. Then he came back and everything was different. I could feel warmth and love in the way he touched me. The kisses he pressed to my thighs and stomach made me melt. And then his tongue¡­

    It¡¯s always been difficult for me to get turned on with Leon, and finally reaching orgasm with him felt like a big achievement for me. For us. I was so proud of us.

    A horrible thought urs to me. All the time we were in bed together, he must have beenparing me with that other woman. I cringe when I think about all the ways I must have beencking. I bet Angie had no problem giving killer blowjobs and having orgasms left and right.

    ¡°I¡¯ve been bncing work and familymitments and feeling like I¡¯m never good enough. I think trying to be a good person didn¡¯t make me a very fun girlfriend.¡±

    Mr. Grant seizes my shoulders and makes me look at him. ¡°Listen to me, Elena. You are notcking. None of this is your fault. Do you hear me?¡±

    It sure feels like it¡¯s my fault. If I were a good person, I¡¯d still have a boyfriend, and I¡¯d know who my mother is by now.

    I can hear my aunts¡¯ chilly voices in my head, berating me over this new turn of events.

    You gave him your body to treat like a yground, and now you¡¯re all alone? Of course he walked out and didn¡¯t look back. No man likes a whore, Elena.

    Just as disgusting and irresponsible as your mother. It¡¯s anyone¡¯s guess who your real father is. I¡¯m sure she doesn¡¯t even know.

    Mr. Grant¡¯s insistent voice breaks through theirs. ¡°You deserve to be treated with respect. You are more than enough, Elena.¡± His eyes run over my tearstained face as if he¡¯s looking at someone beautiful, not a red-faced mess. ¡°You deserve everything you want, just as you are.¡±

    My lower lip quivers as I gaze up at him. But I¡¯ve never been enough. I¡¯ve always been foundcking. No one¡¯s ever said anything so wonderful to me before.

    ¡°I think Leon dumped me because I¡¯m boring.¡±

    Mr. Grant fights a smile. My eyes widen in surprise.

    He shakes his head. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m notughing at you. It¡¯s just that¡­¡± He lifts his twinkling eyes to mine. ¡°After what you and I have been through together, how could you call yourself boring?¡±

    The murders.

    The kiss.

    No, he means the murders. Of course he does. ¡°You¡¯re the one who saved me when I got into trouble. I didn¡¯t do anything.¡±

    ¡°Didn¡¯t you?¡± He rests his temple on his fist and gazes at me, an admiring smile on his face. ¡°Do you ever think about how you picked up thatmp and smashed it across your attacker¡¯s face? Do you think about stabbing one of them? I do. I think about it a lot.¡±

    It wasn¡¯t like it was a conscious decision. Cun had a wild, angry expression in his eyes when he entered the room, and I was suddenly energized. He came to save me when I needed him.

    Mr. Grant tucks my hair behind my ear. ¡°When I say you are enough, it doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯ve measured you against some special criteria. It means that just by being you, kind, sweet Elena, I¡¯m in awe of you.¡±

    I suck in a breath. Maybe Cun is just trying to make me feel better, but for a moment, I believe him. He speaks so sensitively about the idea of being enough that I wonder if he¡¯s worried about the same thing.

    ¡°You sound like this is something you¡¯ve struggled with as well. Being enough for someone.¡±

    He grimaces. ¡°My ex didn¡¯t cheat on me, but she let me know she was gravely disappointed in the man I am.¡±

    I clutch his hand, a pang going through me. ¡°That¡¯s awful. I¡¯m so sorry.¡±

    Mr. Grant gazes at my fingers wrapped around his. ¡°I¡¯m getting over it.¡±

    I¡¯m filled with curiosity about Mr. Grant¡¯s past. I know so little about him. ¡°Can you tell me about her?¡±

    He turns his hand over, palm up, and gently holds mine. ¡°What would you like to know?¡±

    ¡°Why didn¡¯t things work out between you two?¡±

    He thinks for a moment, idly caressing my thumb with his. ¡°We wanted different things. I wanted more children, and she wanted more freedom. I couldn¡¯t be the real me around her, so piece by piece, I shut her out, and that hurt her.¡±

    ¡°Who¡¯s the real Cun Grant?¡±

    He smiles, and strokes the pad of his thumb across my palm. ¡°Well, that¡¯s the question, isn¡¯t it? I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever been my whole self before, but I feel like I¡¯m getting closer.¡±

    I rarely let my eyes linger on Mr. Grant, because otherwise, I¡¯d be staring at his handsome face nonstop. Sitting so close together on his sofa in his warm, cozy house while he holds my hand, I give myself permission to drink him in.

    When I first met Mr. Grant, he had a solemn, washed-out look. He wore nd, pale colors. He had the air of a man who was trying to fade into the background.

    Now, he has a glow. He wears ck more often, a striking color on him that enhances his handsome features. He¡¯s not so careful about covering his tattoos, and he moves with newfound confidence and authority.

    Mr. Grant watches me study him. ¡°What do you make of me, Elena?¡±

    I feel a warm sparkle when he says my name. ¡°You¡¯re different than when we first met.¡±

    ¡°Am I?¡±

    ¡°When I first saw you in that diner, you seemed like the world had ceased to give you any happiness. Your divorce must have been painful, but I think you¡¯re getting past it.¡±

    ¡°Maybe that¡¯s it.¡± He cups my face and strokes my cheek with his thumb. ¡°Thank you for always taking such good care of my daughter, darlin¡¯.¡±

    A heated thrill goes through me as we stare into each other¡¯s eyes. Darlin¡¯. He called me that right before he kissed me in his truck. Are you afraid of me, darlin¡¯? I still don¡¯t know why that happened¡ªor why I enjoyed it so much. Mr. Grant is twenty years older than me. Surely he¡¯s too old for me to think he¡¯s sexy or want to go to bed with him. Our lives are in very different ces. I¡¯m a mess, and he has responsibilities and an important job. He¡¯s my boss, at least some of the time. It¡¯s not appropriate or realistic for me to think about Mr. Grant in any way that¡¯s romantic or sexual.

    And yet.

    I¡¯ve been terrified to admit it to myself, but Leon¡¯s dad has a strong pull on me. Feeling shy, I nce at our hands with our fingers tangled together. My eyes travel slowly up his arm, his shoulder, his throat, and then to his face. I feel a jolt when I realize he¡¯s looking at me as intently as I¡¯m looking at him.

    Elena. How much do you really want my son?

    My eyes drift to his lips. Such a full lower lip. A sensitive-looking mouth. I remember vividly that it feels so good to be kissed by him.

    I lean forward slightly, closing some of the gap between us. My eyes flutter closed, and I tilt my mouth up to his.

    ¡°Elena¡­¡± he whispers, grazing my cheekbone with his thumb.

    ¡°Yes?¡± I whisper breathily. This is where he tells me that he hasn¡¯t been able to stop thinking about our kiss. Or better yet, he just takes my face in his hands and kisses me. A demanding kiss, filled with desperation that we can finally sate.

    ¡°I should check on her, Elena.¡±

    I frown, not understanding what he means. I hear a distant, tinny sound, and it takes me a moment to realize that it¡¯s Rosie crying through the baby monitor apps on both of our phones.

    My eyes snap open. Mr. Grant is gazing at me with a deep line etched between his brows.

    ¡°Oh, my God. Rosie.¡± I sit up with a gasp. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry.¡±

    He gets to his feet. That frown on his face has to mean grave disapproval. ¡°It¡¯s all right, Elena. I¡¯ll go.¡±

    ¡°Please, I can do it.¡± My face is ming as I hurry after him. The whole reason I¡¯m here is to look after Rosie. Trying to kiss the hot dad while I ignore the baby? I¡¯m the worst babysitter ever. Unfortunately, Mr. Grant beats me to the nursey.

    As he lifts the crying, red-faced little girl in his arms, there¡¯s the gentlest look on his face, and he murmurs soothing words to her. I hover by his side, twisting my fingers together, feeling useless but also unable to leave his side now that I¡¯m here.

    When Rosie¡¯s crying dies down, Mr. Grant turns to me. ¡°You go back to the sofa, Elena. You¡¯ve had a terrible shock tonight.¡±

    I¡¯m suffering the newer devastation that I tried to kiss my boyfriend¡¯s dad while I neglected his daughter, who I¡¯m paid to look after. I think I¡¯d rather break up with Leon a second time. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, I should have heard her crying ande right away.¡±

    ¡°After the night you¡¯ve had, you have nothing to apologize for. I¡¯m the one who feels like I should apologize to you on behalf of my son.¡±

    I move away and rest my back against the doorframe, enjoying the sight of him holding Rosie and thefort it brings me. He looks even sexier with the baby in his strong arms.

    I nce toward the stairs. I can¡¯t keep having these crazy thoughts. ¡°I¡¯m in the way. Seeing as I¡¯ve ruined your evening, I should go home. Unless you want to try and make that poker game?¡±

    Mr. Grant ces his daughter back in the crib, cradling her in his big hands. Thanks to thefort of her father¡¯s arms, the little girl has closed her eyes and fallen back asleep. He gently tucks the nket in around her, and turns to me. ¡°I¡¯d drive you home, but Rosie¡¯s sleeping. Stay here and sleep in the spare room. I¡¯ll look after her. I¡¯m not in the mood for poker now anyway.¡±

    Is it my imagination, or do his eyes drop to my mouth for a moment?

    I feel a ze of agonized shame. Of course Mr. Grant isn¡¯t looking at my mouth. Turning away quickly, I head for the door. ¡°I¡¯ll just go. I want to be home.¡±

    He reaches out and seizes my wrist. ¡°Elena. If you won¡¯t stay, I¡¯ll order a car for you. It¡¯s not safe for you to be out alone by yourself at night.¡±

    Wordlessly, I nod.

    Five minutester, a car pulls up. As I say goodbye to him, I can¡¯t look him in the eye. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever felt more wretched in my life.<hr>

    ¡°Here you go. It¡¯s twice what I normally pay.¡±

    Aunt Astrid, Aunt Frieda, and I are sitting around the kitchen table in the house I used to call home. Aunt Astrid pulls crisp bills out of the envelope I¡¯ve handed over instead of the usual crumpled ones, and I feel my blood boil as I watch her count it.

    It¡¯s been three days since I found out that Leon has been cheating on me. I¡¯ve been holding it together at the diner, but I haven¡¯t heard from my boyfriend¡ªex-boyfriend¡ªand I feel in a sort of limbo. It feels like we¡¯re broken up, but nothing¡¯s been said between us since he called me frigid.

    I haven¡¯t seen Mr. Grant since I tried to kiss him. He has called me twice, but I haven¡¯t found the courage to speak to him. Every time I remember that moment when my eyes closed, practically begging for his lips, I want to burst into mes and disintegrate. Leon didn¡¯t want me because I wasn¡¯t enough for him. Mr. Grant no doubt thinks I¡¯m repent for trying to kiss him. I threw myself at both father and son. Who does that? My skin heats ufortably and I shift around in my seat.

    I suspect Cun is only calling me so he can fire me. There¡¯s an ache in my throat as I imagine never seeing Rosie again. I was starting to get attached to her, and I think she liked me too. As a babysitter, you¡¯re not supposed to get attached, but she was just too adorable. She¡¯s loved so much, and I can¡¯t help being drawn to all that love, and loving her as well.

    Aunt Astrid looks up at me with a hard, suspicious gleam in her eye. ¡°Elena, where did you get this money?¡±

    I wasn¡¯t expecting such a negative reaction.

    ¡°Working,¡± I say, my confidence slipping away. I thought they¡¯d be pleased with the double payment. I thought for once they¡¯d smile at me and tell me they were proud of me.

    Aunt Frieda takes a sip of her tea. ¡°New shoes. Did you notice, Astrid?¡±

    ¡°Oh, I noticed,¡± Aunt Astrid replies darkly as if they¡¯re discussing something sinister.

    ¡°I¡¯ve been working a second job that pays well. Paid well,¡± I correct myself. I doubt I¡¯ll ever receive any more work from Mr. Grant. Yesterday I bought myself new sneakers for work. Not branded ones. Cheap ones, butfortable.

    ¡°Oh, have you?¡± Aunt Astrid asks with an edge to her voice. She brandishes the money. ¡°This amount is easy for you to pay?¡±

    ¡°Well, it was this week,¡± I reply, suspecting this is a trap. ¡°But I don¡¯t know if I¡ª¡±

    ¡°Then next week you can double it,¡± Aunt Astrid says. ¡°If you¡¯ve doubled it once, you can double it again.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± I gasp, sitting forward. ¡°Why?¡±

    Aunt Frieda¡¯s eyes gleam as though she¡¯s impressed by her sister¡¯s demand.

    ¡°You¡¯d only waste the money if you kept it,¡± Aunt Frieda says.

    ¡°Yes, you can pay us twice as much if this is so easy for you,¡± adds Aunt Astrid.

    ¡°But I¡¯m putting what¡¯s leftover in the bank. I¡¯m nearly twenty-one and I have no savings.¡± The fear that I¡¯m falling far behind my peers in terms of life milestones has grown stronger the past few days. Leon¡¯s presence in my life was masking a lot of those fears because I could tell myself that at least I had a boyfriend.

    Aunt Frieda leans forward. ¡°So you don¡¯t want to meet your mother? Is that what you¡¯re saying?¡±

    I feel like she¡¯s pped me across the face.

    Next to me on the table is a porcin vase shaped like themp I used against my attacker in Fenton. I fantasize about picking it up and smashing it over my aunts¡¯ greedy heads. If only violence would solve this problem as well.

    I stare into my dull gray tea while they berate me for myziness, ingratitude, and irresponsibility. They pester me about whether I¡¯ve been chaste like I promised, and my face betrays me by turning red.

    Aunt Astrid and Aunt Frieda exchange scandalized nces and shake their heads, but their eyes are wide and bright as though they delight in finding me disgusting and scious.

    I leave their house feeling weighed down with misery and self-loathing. Every day is a chance to prove that I deserve more than their bitter, miserly love, and every day I fail.

    I want to go straight to bed when I get home, but as I step out of the elevator, my feet squelch in wet carpet. Water is pouring from beneath my apartment door and flooding the hallway. I stare at this iprehensible sight for a moment before digging out my key and unlocking my door.

    Water gushes over my feet.

    ¡°What the frick?¡± I whisper, walking into my sodden apartment. Water is spouting from beneath the sink. The force of it has pushed the cab doors open. I can see a broken pipe, and I get soaked through trying and failing to staunch the flow.

    I go back into the hallway and call myndlord and then Alexandra. I try both numbers again and again, alternating between them, but neither picks up. Meanwhile, the flooding in the hallway is getting worse. I can only imagine that people downstairs must have water dripping or even gushing through their ceilings.

    I pace up and down for a moment and then try Alexandra again. As soon as I hang up, my phone rings, and I answer without looking at who¡¯s calling. ¡°Alexandra, you¡¯re not going to believe this.¡±

    It¡¯s not Alexandra¡¯s voice I hear in my ear, but a deep, masculine one.

    ¡°Elena? It¡¯s Cun.¡±

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